


Two-Hundred Roses

by TheFaye92



Series: Shield and Foundation [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Betrayal, Blackwall's POV, Complete, Dragons, F/M, Flowers, Implied Sexual Content, Jousting, POV Third Person Limited, Plague, Sexual Imagery, Slight Taste of Despair, Some angst, Spoilers, Theme of Redemption, eventual forgiveness, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 85,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFaye92/pseuds/TheFaye92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall didn't know if she would ever forgive him, but he supposed flowers was a good start. He seeks redemption and the chance to earn back the Inquisitor's love and trust while someone evil plots to take down the Inquisition from within. Spoiler Alert! Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> The following Contains Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition. Do not gather your party and venture forth if you have not played DAI.
> 
> So this is not my first fan fiction, but it is my first in...in well forever. I myself have fallen in love with Blackwall's character and I wanted to explore him and expand on my ability to write male characters. So, anyway, this is my first chapter. Please enjoy and thank you.
> 
> P.S. Big thanks to my beta, enc0432, who is my best friend in real life and supported me through this whole thing. She also wrote an awesome story called The Wrong Side of Heaven, so it you dig Dorian/Male Inquisitor (which, who doesn't?) please check it out.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc... are property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. And I am thankful as a fan to get the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter I**

He rode breakneck until his painted mare came to a halt and refused to go any further. He wasn’t even through the mountains yet. The sun had gone down; this had been his first whole day away from her since she had approached him in the Hinterlands.

 _Curse me for a fool,_ Blackwall thought as he threaded his fingers though his beard. He hated the damn thing and at first it had been a necessity, but Genevieve—the Inquisitor—liked it. He dismounted and found a small alcove to huddle in for the night. It was bitterly cold so he dared a fire and hoped not be found by the spymaster’s scouts. Although he hoped they'd find him. Maker did he hope they’d find him. Then he could configure some stupid excuse, she would forgive him, and he could go back to her arms and pretend as if nothing had ever happened.

 _But you don’t deserve her or any of it, you lying son of a bitch._ He told himself. If she knew the truth, she would cast him out. And the Real Blackwall wouldn’t leave an innocent man to hang.

Blackwall tied up his mare where she could graze on the little shoots of grass peeking out from the melting snow. He collected the driest branches he could find and started a small fire. The cave he’d found kept the worst of the wind off him but it was bitterly cold. He missed the hayloft and the few short hours he’d spent with her curled around him, his face pressed into her neck taking in the scent of elfroot and honey that clung to her like perfume.

Maker he could almost feel her against him. He pressed his hands to his eyes. How could he have left her like that? And that made him think of her. Of his sweet little bird.

Young and lithe, with an hourglass figure he could fit his hands around. Sometimes when he kissed her, he could feel the magic humming within her. She kept her hair short to her shoulders because one time as an apprentice she had set it on fire. But it had still been long enough for him to take in his hands and thread through his fingers, to gently pull back for better access to her neck. He had lain her down in the hay loft, on the furs where he made his bed.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had been with a woman, but he knew that Genevieve Trevelyan was like none before. She had been soft and sweet and eager to learn. Blackwall knew when they had finished and she had laid her head on his chest and fallen into gentle sleep that he _loved_ her.

That was why he had to leave. He had to break her heart so that he could be the man she thought he was.

It was past midnight when he was certain she had fallen deep into the Fade. He’d dressed quickly and looked over at her naked form. Beyond beautiful, he’d thought. He couldn’t leave her like that and he took one of the furs and threw it over her. He meant to leave right then, truly he did, but he knelt to kiss her one last time. She stirred.

Her pale blue eyes were dark with sleep and she gave a soft yawn before whispering; “morning, love,”

“It’s not morning, little bird,” he whispered back. “Go back to sleep, my lady.”

“Then why are you up?” She pulled the fur up to cover her breasts, but her feet were left uncovered and Blackwall got his chance.

“It’s cold, I’m going to get you another blanket,” he smoothed her hair and smiled.

She yawned. “Oh, okay.” She rolled over trying to get comfortable. “Hurry back, I don’t think I ever want to sleep alone ever again,”

Blackwall ran his fingers through her hair again and kissed her temple. “I’ll be right back,” the lie stung worse than all the others. He sat there a moment, waiting for her to fall back asleep. He did not move until her breathing was perfectly rhythmic.

Then he had hurried down stairs and saddled his horse and scribbled a quick note. Maybe she would understand, he’d thought. He had told her he was no good for her, maybe now she would believe him.

Thinking of his note drew him away from his memory and the warm feeling that had washed over him as he thought of her naked against him was flushed away by icy cold. He’d used her and left her. And there it was, undeniable proof that he was no good.

Blackwall got up from the fire to rub his horse down and then wrapped himself in the saddle blanket and made himself eat a bit of hardtack. He tried to keep his mind from her, but he couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing now.

Upon waking she would have run to Cassandra—no. Sera was her best friend, Sera would let her cry in her lap and then offer some joke or—no. She would do neither. Genevieve is the Inquisitor, she had learned better now. She would grieve, but not until she went to see her Spymaster.

She would cry for a little while and then return to her duties. She would go to her garden as she did every day and check on her plants, then she would get to work on some potions, and visit the ill and injured in the infirmary, go to prayer at noon bells, and then Inquisition business until supper. During supper Varric would probably regale her with stories of Hawke and their adventures and then start a game of wicked grace to keep her distracted. And then she would go to bed in her big tower room and maybe cry herself to sleep.

His eyes burned when he thought of her crying over her broken heart. Knowing that he had done it to her. She probably thought she had done something wrong, because she was the kind of girl who thought like that.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered into the cold. “I’m so sorry, little bird.” Blackwall leaned against the cave wall and drifted into a short and fitful sleep.

XXXX

Blackwall was up long before the sun. The fire had died in the night and his joints were stiff with the cold. He rose and stretched, trying to get his blood pumping again. His mare protested when he saddled her so he offered soothing words and a promise to go easier. It didn’t help, but a good rub down did.

Light began to show as the mare slowly picked her way through the snow. It was too treacherous to not use the road even though he would have preferred the anonymity of the woods. The road was hard packed by constant use, the Inquisition brought pilgrims from all over Thedas. As the day went on, Blackwall saw more and more people, he quickly threw up the hood of his cloak in hopes of hiding his face. He couldn’t be certain who Leliana’s spies were.

By noon Blackwall spotted an ornate carriage drawn by four snow white Orlesian steeds coming up the road. A Chevalier rode ahead of them, a herald at his side. The herald was shouting for other travelers to make way for Duchess Something-or-Other. Blackwall moved aside and watched the gaudy procession go by.

“Genevieve is just going to _love_ that,” he chuckled to himself only to remember what he was doing and any mirth the thought might have brought him died.

Only a few weeks ago had they returned from the Winter Palace, drained and thoroughly politicked-out, but with Celene on the throne and an Orlesian alliance assured. It was after all was said and done that Genevieve truly let her Free Marcher show. Upon arriving home she spent two hours ranting and raving about her disdain for the Grand Game and how “in Andraste’s holy name has Orlais managed itself as a country for the past thousand years is a mystery even the Maker himself can’t solve.”

It hurt to know that he would miss her graciously welcoming Duchess Something-or-Other to Skyhold, would show her the garden, the infirmary, and the library. At the end of the day she would sit down to a cordial supper with the noblewoman, excuse herself early (feigning exhaustion) so that she could go to the tavern where she would be free to mock the Orlesian without scrutiny. She would take up her phony Orlesian accent and make comments on how her ale had a hint of spice and despair.

One time she made a similar joke about a ham during a game of wicked grace and Vivienne herself walked in on it. To her credit, the Inquisitor didn’t even bat an eye as the Grand Enchanter stepped forward and took a sliver of ham and popped it into her mouth and then gently informed them that it was most certainly not despair, but woe.

The whole room had burst into laughter, though no one quite as loud as Genevieve herself. It was that sound he decided he would carry to his death.

The carriage and its entourage finally passed and Blackwall continued on. He gave his horse a nudge and picked up a little speed, with luck he would be out of the mountains by nightfall. He kept along the edge of the road, thinking of happier times; of his lover’s laugh, of the brightness of her eyes after she casted a spell, the sight of her dutifully taking care of her flower press book, her hands stained from mashing elfroot…

He caught sight of the Eye of the Inquisition. A small patrol of soldiers were marching opposite of him, the Inquisition’s flag held high, their armor polished clean. He put his head down and made himself look every bit the weary traveler.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as they went by. They were just common soldiers, not likely to know the Inquisitor’s lover by sight. But he still kept his head down, tried to make himself as small as possible. They just kept on marching. Not one of them knew him although he did not breathe until they were gone.

 _Damn the snow_ , he thought and moved on.

XXXX

He wasn’t totally out of the mountains by nightfall, but the temperature had risen and there was more mud then snow on the road by the time he made camp. There were fellow travelers all along a small stream by the roadside. Blackwall led his mare off the road and across the stream and made his camp far away from other people.

Another day had passed. It felt as if the further away he got from Skyhold, the easier it was breathe. He had resigned himself to this. He would take responsibilities for the things he had done. It was justice. The real Blackwall would have owned up to his crimes, and damn Thom Rainer for a coward. Blackwall would not run.

Blackwall took a sip of water from the stream before taking the saddle from his mare and tying her to a nearby tree where she could easily access the stream and some grass. He made up a fire, took a chunk of salt pork from his rations, skewered it on a stick, and warmed it over the flames.

As the night settled in and all the other camps went quiet, Blackwall felt the loneliness begin to set in. He pulled the saddle blanket over his shoulders and leaned up against a tree, the ground underneath was mostly dry. Although guilt ravaged through him, he tried to think of his Lady’s sweet kisses.

It was when he was thinking of her soft touch in his hair and the gentle slope of her hips when he heard a voice say; “Warden Blackwall?”

He woke with a start, fearing he was caught and nearly relived that had been.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” the voice said again.

Blackwall looked up and saw two scouts in forest green standing on the other side of his fire. The man who spoke was an elf, his companion was a human woman.

“We were just heading back to Skyhold,” the woman said. “Our patrol is up,”

Blackwall wondered how to respond, he still couldn’t tell if they knew he was missing or if they had been in the woods. He went the safest route. “You’re welcome to sit, the Inquisitor’s men are always welcome at my fire.”

The two scouts sat. The elf removed his helmet and stoked the fire up for them. “Thank you, Warden,”

“Aye, of course.” Blackwall answered.

Blackwall watched as the woman rummaged through her packs and dug out two ugly looking bricks of hardtack. She looked ragged, her pack looked damp as if she had taken a tumbling into the stream.

The elf threw a blanket over the woman’s shoulders. “There you go, Lily. Don’t worry, we’ll get back tomorrow and get you warm.” Blackwall almost sighed in relief now that he knew they didn’t know he was missing.

Blackwall frowned when she gave the elf a shivery nod and handed him a bit of the wormy hardtack. He shook his head. “I’ve rations enough,” he opened his saddle bag and tossed the elf a large chunk of salt pork and hard cheese. “You eat that, pork taste better crisped over the fire.”

“Warden, we can’t—” the woman began but Blackwall shook his head.

“Sure you can. And you will,”

“Thank you sir,” the elf smiled. “We were east of here, ran into a pack of wolves. They chased us pretty far until we came across the stream, jumped in to loose ‘em. Lily lost her cloak and refused to take mine.”

“I’m fine aren’t I?” the woman snapped, although she seemed happy to be eating pork and cheese over mealy hardtack.

Blackwall gently unclasped his cloak and passed it to the young scout. “Here, you wear this, It’ll keep you warm through the night and I have my blanket.”

“Sir, I can’t—”

“No Inquisition scout is going cold and hungry on my watch, miss. You wear that cloak, you eat what I give you, and then you get home and hopefully without a flu.”

The woman jumped. “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful sir, its just— _Maker_. All them in the barracks weren’t sure what to make of you sir, knowing her Worship is sweet on you, but I know why now.” The elf nodded in agreement.

“Thank you sir,” the elf added. They folded into a comfortable silence for a few minutes as the scouts ate.

“Can I ask sir,” the woman began. Her teeth weren’t chattering anymore. “Why you’re out here? Shouldn’t you be at Skyhold?”

Blackwall had hoped this question wouldn’t come, but he had no choice but to answer. “Warden business.”

The two scouts exchanged glances. Bravely, the elf asked; “Is it your Calling, sir?”

He decided not to answer and instead pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders and sighed. They were still waiting for him to say something, so he looked down at the fire and let his heart pour out. “If she asks, you’ll tell her I love her?” They both nodded and then there was silence save for the crackling of the fire.

When the scouts woke at dawn, Blackwall was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the new tumblr-blog-thingy I share with my totally awesome beta, enc0432: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly AU, I did it because my Inquisitor is a mage and I felt it added a layer that was missing from the simple conversation you have with the scout after finding Blackwall gone. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my best friend and beta, enc0432.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc... are property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. And I am thankful as a fan to get the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter II**

There were many roads to Val Royeaux and Blackwall choose the one with the rockiest, muddiest path in hope of avoiding as many people as possible. It seemed prudent to keep off the Imperial Highway where the bulk of soldiers would be even if this was the more dangerous road. But Blackwall left his cloak with the freezing scout and now had no way of hiding his face should anyone happen to recognize him. The need to stay unnoticed trumped any fear of being ambushed by Free Men or bandits, and he had his sword in case anyone got any ideas.

On top of all that, while there was no snow in the lowlands, a cold wind was blowing and clouds on the horizon promised rain. Maker did his miss his cloak, but he didn’t regret giving the girl his cloak. A final gesture of kindness from a dying man.

Having skipped breakfast during his rush to leave the Frostbacks behind, he grew ravenous around noontime. Blackwall stopped at a small copse of trees and rifled through his saddle bags. He took out his map and a bit of hard biscuit. He would leave his horse in the nearest port town and take a boat to Val Royeaux. He didn’t want to ride through Lydes, he would skirt around it and find a ferry in the small little town of Sabine.

Blackwall finished his meager lunch and shoved the map into his pack. He mounted up again and let the mare pick her pace. The going was slow and boring, nothing like the excitement of taking to the road with the Inquisitor and her inner circle. Varric would tell them a story and there were jokes and laughter. Sometimes Genevieve sang when conversation lulled, hymns usually. She may not have had the prettiest voice but what she lacked in pitch and made up for in spirit.

She sang while she tended her garden too. Sometimes it was a hymn mumbled under her breath, other times something she heard in the tavern, or little bits of the Chant. Blackwall once noted to her, as he watched her root around in the dirt for a suitable place to plant a new crop of blood lotus, that she couldn’t seem to get any work done unless she had a tune to hum. She denied it of course and then immediately picked up her song where she left off.

Blackwall thought of one of her songs and let the tune carry him for a few miles; pretending his little bird was there singing beside him made the time pass a just a little bit faster.

It slowed right back down though when the rain started. The downpour began with a clap of thunder. Blackwall knew the best thing to do would be to stop and find some shelter especially now that he didn’t have his cloak, but he kept on riding.

The going was terribly uncomfortable now. He was wearing three layers and each one was soaked through within an hour. From there what was merely uncomfortable had become miserable. He longed for the warmth of his hay barn or even better—one of Genevieve’s warming charms. She could warm a man’s boots with just the touch of her hand and he could only imagine what that spell might do on bare skin…

It was best not to dwell on it. He would never get the chance to know now; he had to be content with the memories.

When it became clear that the weather wasn’t going to clear up, Blackwall, dripping wet and near frozen to the bone found a relatively dry looking grove of saplings. He tied his horse up and took a bit of rope from his saddle and tried bending and tying the baby trees into a half decent shelter. It wasn’t perfect in the end, but it kept the worse of the rain off him. He made his mare lay down beside him and got a fire going, the wet branches smoked for the most part but he managed to coax a small flame out of it.

He should have taken his armor and clothes off to let them dry, but he hated the idea of being naked in the wilderness with Maker knew what roaming the hills. Still, he needed some rest even if his sleep had been fitful at best for the past few weeks.

It was in Halamshiral when that stupid noble claimed to have recognized him when he realized the façade couldn’t be kept forever. And even before then when he saw the announcement for Mornay’s execution. But it was at the Winter Palace when he truly realized what the real Blackwall would do. He was there, dancing with the most beautiful woman in all of Thedas, living a lie, letting her _love that lie_ , and his second-in-command was going to hang for crimes he didn’t commit.

He never should have gone to that ball. He should have told her no, made up some excuse. But he couldn’t deny a beautiful girl and her gentle kisses and insistence. He went because she begged him not to make her go alone. When he finally agreed to go, she had kissed him with a heated fervor that promised rewards to come. Had that kiss been a dragon, it would have slain him. He would have done anything in light of that kiss—anything she asked.

That kiss was a good memory and he resolved himself to think of it until it lulled him to sleep.

XXXX

It was almost sundown when he saw the overturned wagon and the family trying desperately to right it. Blackwall had been traveling since early morning and was half asleep in the saddle, but he couldn’t leave the poor folk struggling at the side of the road.

The wagon was a simple wooden thing drawn by an old mule. It had turned over in the mud, but it didn’t look broken. Blackwall hailed them and dismounted; his mare wandered over to a patch of short grass.

“Good day,” Blackwall repeated. “Can I be of any help?”

The family was made up of a man, his wife, and two girls. They were all covered in mud and sweat; their belongings had been stacked away from the road and the muck. They were simple farmer folk by the look of them.

“Hello, ser,” the man greeted him warily. Blackwall didn’t blame the man, he was certain he looked every bit the bandit with an unkempt beard, the filth of travel, and sword hanging off his saddle.

“I thought perhaps I could help you, just needs to be turned over, right?” Blackwall rubbed his hands together hoping to warm his fingers up. When they seemed unsure, Blackwall sighed. “You’ve nothing to fear from me, I’m a Grey Warden,”

The man and his wife exchanged glances. They relented. “Very well, thank you Warden.” The man answered.

Blackwall went to the end of the cart, the farmer to the other near the hitch. Together they tried to lift the cart out of the muddy hole it was in. The cart rocked back and forth with their efforts. With a great heaving sigh, Blackwall lifted hard with his knees and they managed to put the cart right but not out of the rut.

The wife hitched up the mule. With the mule pulling and Blackwall and the farmer lifting and pushing, the cart finally came out of the pothole.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” the farmer bobbed his head in appreciation.

“Of course,” Blackwall felt himself smile for the first time in days. “I should be on my way,” He was soaked through and now covered in mud, but he had a long way to go yet.

Blackwall started for his horse but the farmer’s wife stopped him. “It’s getting dark, Warden. We don’t have a tent, but we have a tarp, we would welcome a warden’s blade. Our supplies weren’t ruined in the rain, I’ll cook,” A hot meal sounded spectacular and he could feel a chill setting in his bones.

Finally, Blackwall nodded. “Thank you, my lady, I would like that.” And she blushed when he smiled.

The farmer was named Broom, his wife, Flora, and their two children, Camellia and Dahlia, were on their way to Ferelden. Flora had an aunt there who had just lost her husband and was willing to give her farm to the family if they moved there and took care of her until she passed. The family was all too eager to flee the civil war in Orlais for the stability of Ferelden. It would be quite a change for them, but it was for the better.

Broom told him all this as the two men got the tarp erected and got a fire going. Flora started a pot of soup, made from dried beans and jerky. The two children stuck close to the fire, wary of the dark and the sound of animals in the distance.

“Don’t worry,” Blackwall assured them. “No wolf would attack a Grey Warden, and if he does, you’ll have yourselves a new fur blanket.”

Camellia, smiled. She was the oldest and had a better idea of what a Grey Warden was. “Do Grey Warden’s hunt wolves often?”

“Wardens hunt lots of dangerous things,” Blackwall answered. “But you needn’t worry about that, little one.” He mussed her hair and smiled when she giggled.

When the soup was finished everyone settled under the tarp to eat. The rain was still coming down, travel would be harder from here on out.

“So, Warden, where are you headed?” Broom asked.

Blackwall blew on his soup and took a tentative sip. It was thin and practically tasteless, but it was warm and that was the important part. He took another sip, trying to decide how to answer. “To Lydes,” he lied. “Warden business,”

“Ah,” the answer satisfied the man and he didn’t ask any more questions.

The rest of the night was quiet. The family laid out their bedrolls and offered Blackwall an extra blanket. He was thankful for it, although it didn’t keep the nights chill off him. In the early morning, he thanked Broom and Flora for their hospitality and rode off.

XXXX

Blackwall reached the little port of Sabine with a week to spare before Mornay’s scheduled execution. He took a room at the only inn in town; the supper they served was terrible, the ale worse, and the bed was threadbare and hardly long enough to fit him. His mare got a place in the stable though and plenty of hay to keep her happy. In the morning he planned on selling her. A dead man didn’t need coin so he would purchase a spot on the ferry and give the rest to the nearest Chantry poor box—Genevieve would smile on that at least.

She did things like that. If ever she found a few spare coins they went straight to Mother Giselle, or to the fund Cullen had set up for the families of Inquisition soldiers. When she saw a child, crying and distraught from the ruin going on around them, she would snap her fingers and make a little spell wisp dance around until the child got to giggling.

It was all those little, wonderful things that were worth remembering. For the past week he had gotten a chance to truly understand what he had left in Skyhold. They said a man didn’t appreciate what he had until he had lost it; Blackwall now knew those words to be true. His little bird’s laugh, her sweet kisses, the kindness she handed out even when no one was watching—he had known about all those things, but now that he was far away from her did he see how special she was.

And on top of all that, she was the Inquisitor. She was a powerful, strong, beautiful woman. She would get along without him. And if she should ever need one, there were plenty of suitors vying for her hand. Although Blackwall didn’t like to think about her being with another man. It wouldn’t matter when he died though, she had to move on.

The bed creaked when Blackwall rolled over. He shifted his weight in hopes of getting more comfortable but the bed was just too lumpy. With a sigh he rolled onto his back again then threaded his fingers through his beard. He really was getting sick of it and now Genevieve wasn’t around to dissuade him.

Shaving his beard was the last coherent thought he had as he drifted off to sleep. The next thing was a bizarre mess of old memories: of him giving bad orders to good men; seeing darkspawn for the first time; of driving his blade into a Red Templar after the fiend had hit the Inquisitor so hard with his shield that she lost consciousness.

He pulled the blade from the Templar and turned to Genevieve and expected to find her on the ground but instead the world around him was blanketed in fog and everything from rocks to trees was simply falling away. Silence reigned, eerie and warm as bath water.

From the corner of his eye he saw a shadow move in the fog. The shadow was struggling with something, as if it was having trouble holding onto some unseen rope. Blackwall watched as the shadow became a hazy vision.

“Blackwall,” the vision spoke, he knew the voice. “Blackwall, where are you?”

The figure finally came into focus. She was wearing a simple brown tunic and leggings, her hair was windblown, and she looked exhausted. It was the kind of exhaustion she had when things got to be too much, when there were demons to kill, rifts to close, paperwork to slog through, judgments to be made, lives to _destroy_ or _save_. He had seen this look before and it was when she needed him most. Many times he’d held her and kissed her when she came into the barn looking as if a demon had dragged her through the void and back; he had also seen it fade when she took her tea in the barn with him and sat quietly in the chair by the fire pit while he carved something new.

“Genevieve?” Blackwall asked, he reached out with his hand to touch her. To his surprise and delight, he was able to put his hand on her shoulder. “Is it you little bird?” He drew her in to hold her and she obliged. She pressed her face into in neck and he was certain he could feel her breath on him.

“Blackwall, where are you?”

“Orlais,” he answered without a second thought. The dream was too good to ruin, he would do as she asked. He was rewarded with a kiss.

“Where are you going, my love?”

She was shorter then him, almost by a full head, and the height difference gave him the chance to comb his fingers through her hair. He kissed her forehead and then her nose. He went for her lips but she pulled away and said into his ear; “answers get kisses,”

Blackwall gave a great belly deep laugh and pulled her closer. “Ever the diplomat, my lady,”

She smiled and leaned up on her tip-toes to press her forehead against his. “Are the terms fair, Ser?”

“Aye, fair enough, but I want some answers myself,”

She scrunched up her face as if deep in thought about it, then smirked and exclaimed; “very well,” She put her hands on his shoulders to smooth his tunic and he kept his hands around her waist, holding onto her for dear life. “Where are you—”

“Ah, it’s my turn, my lady,” He tapped her nose with a gentle finger.

“Of course,” she bobbed her head and blushed in embarrassment.

“All those candies you hand out to children, do you really carry them around with you or is there some type of candy producing spell the Circle doesn’t want anyone to know about?” Blackwall asked with a gentle chuckle.

She smirked. “Oh, you’ve caught me. I have a spell that turns pocket lint into hard candy. It’s very difficult; I knew a mage who once transmuted his arm into a lollipop because he didn’t say the incantation right,”

“That’s the truest answer I’m ever going to get out of you, isn’t it?”

“You only get one question per turn,” Genevieve reminded him.

“Right, right,” Blackwall groaned. “Well, you’ve earned a kiss,” He put his hands on the sides of her face and placed a soft kiss on her lips. “You’re turn, little bird,”

She gave him one of her sweet smiles. “Okay, where are you going?”

Blackwall frowned, his thoughts felt hazy, “what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she began, “you’re in Orlais, but where are you going to in Orlais?”

“I don’t want you to know that,” he murmured, but he couldn’t quite remember why she wasn’t supposed to know. “You’re supposed to move on, to forget about me.” He pulled away from her and started walking away.

She went after him and put her arms around his chest. “But I don’t want to forget about you, Blackwall, I love you.” She kissed his ear. “Please, love, just tell me where you’re going, _please_.” The world around them was growing steadily darker until there was nothing but the two of them.

“I’m not a good man for you, Genevieve. You’ve got to move on, little bird, find someone else.” He tried to brush her away, but she ignored his hand and kept placing feather soft kisses in his hair. “You need to be with a good, honest man, someone like Cullen or that Ser Brandon. The one who follows you about like a lost pup,”

“But I don’t _love_ them, _I love you_.” She kissed his ear again. “I know, ask me another question. Ask me about anything,”

Blackwall turned to face her and cautiously put his arms around her again. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he needed her to leave off on her line of questions. He would have to scare her off; he would have to upset her.

It was a good dream while it lasted.

“Is it true that you’re parents tried to have you made tranquil before they sent you off to the Circle?”

Her face went blank and then returned, not with Genevieve’s face, but the Inquisitor’s. All traces of softness left her features, her eyes went from springtime pools to icy granite, her mouth passive. But she did not remove her hands from him, she closed her eyes and opened them slowly before answering with a shaky; “yes,”

She continued, “Now will you tell me where you’re going?”

“I already told you I don’t want to answer that,”

“I answered a question I didn’t want to answer,” was her response. “You think I want to acknowledge that my parents think I’m a monster; that my older siblings hate me; that my youngest brother became a Templar to protect me and was killed by a blood mage when the war started—you think I _want_ to talk about that?”

“This is different—”

“No, Blackwall,” she roared pulling away from him and crossing her arms over her chest. “Sometimes we have to talk about things with the people we love. Sometimes we have to bite the arrowhead and talk about the things we bury down deep inside,”

Blackwall shook his head. “I’m not returning, Genevieve! Once I get to Val Royeaux it’s finished.”

“Well, fine then; you win,” she growled.

He was about to counter when what she said registered; “I did?”

She stepped towards him, stood on her tip-toes and kissed him. “You won,”

Blackwall shot up; he was drenched in sweat and freezing cold. It had been a dream, but also not a dream. He knew now what had happened—Genevieve is a mage. She had gotten lucky and found him and twisted the Fade into an illusion. And she had gotten exactly what she wanted from it. He knew all this because she had declared him a winner and his Genevieve _did not give up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, Merry Christmas, Happy New Year!


	3. Chapter III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used lines verbatim from the game because there wasn't anything I could really do to improve upon them. I have added a few things or changed the style to spice it up for or make it more to my liking, but don't expect it to be wildly different from the game.
> 
> A big thanks to my best friend and beta, enc0432, and to everyone who has left a kudo or bookmarked. It means a lot, and even if there was just one of you following I would still update and do my best. Thanks so much, guys!
> 
> On a side note, I'm trying to make my updates weekly, so there should be one every Wednesday. Sometimes, (like right now) I feel the need to update because the Blackwall fanbase just doesn't have as much to offer as the Cullen or Dorian tags so I want to keep people interested or (hopefully) get people who never were interested in Blackwall in the first place to finally take note and maybe we can get him a little more love. In any event, please enjoy this, I hope you're Holidays have been wonderful.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc... are property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. And I am thankful as a fan to get the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter III**

Blackwall rubbed the back of his neck and tried to work the kinks out of his tense muscles. She’d gotten him. _Got me good_ , he thought. _Now what do I do?_ He would have to keep on to Val Royeaux, he had to stop the execution. But now the Inquisitor knew where he was going, she would be on his heels. If she was still in Skyhold, then the execution would be over before she could catch up. He would be dead and burned before she even found out what happened.

But if she wasn’t in Skyhold—if she was already after him then all he could do was stay hidden. At least she didn’t know what he was now, just where he was going. Val Royeaux was a big city, many people lost themselves in the throngs of people and buildings; he could buy a simple mask even.

Dream or fabricated trick—all of it aside—Blackwall had had his best sleep in a long time. Even when violating his dreams and coercing him to tell her his destination she still had a calming, steadying effect on him. Like one of those guardian spirits she and Solas often discussed. It both warmed him and saddened him to know that she was putting so much effort into finding him. She would be heartbroken for a while, but she was strong, she would put the pieces of her heart back together and give it to someone more deserving than he.

Dawn was peeking through the shuttered window in his room. He rubbed his eyes and decided it was as good a time as any to get up. He rose from the creaky bed. Last night he had left his wet clothes to dry on a nearby chair. His padded outer tunic was still a little damp but everything else was dry.

The inn served their tenants a breakfast of tasteless porridge. Despite the lack of flavor, Blackwall ate all of it. When he finished, he gave the serving girl a few coppers for her trouble and collected his things and his horse. He found a shopkeeper who directed him to a man who might be interested in buying a steady riding horse. The head of the town militia was more than willing to pay fair price for a courser and tack. Blackwall walked away with nearly thirty-five royals.

He found a fishermen out of Val Royeaux who was willing to take him across the strait, but not until tomorrow morning. This meant another night at the inn and another day he couldn’t get lost in the hoi polloi of the capital.

Blackwall went back to the inn and paid for another night of room and board. He ate the lunch his gold paid for and then left the inn to find the local Chantry.

The Chantry was a small, ramshackle little building. The outside didn’t look impressive, and the only thing that marked it as a Chantry was the red sun painted on the doors. The inside of the building wasn’t better either. Blackwall had never seen a Chantry in such disrepair before, although he hadn’t been in many Chantries. All the depictions of Andraste were painted on the walls, it was very unlike the usual domineering statues he had seen in other Chantries. He kind of liked this one, it was humble and quiet. Although incense hung in the air like a dense fog, it must have been to keep the smell of fish out of the Maker’s House.

The hall was quiet, save for an elderly townswoman praying near the rough wooden table that Blackwall supposed was the altar. He took careful steps so he wouldn’t disturb her. With a quick eye, Blackwall located the poor box. The box was painted in fading gold, the sun was emblazoned on the sides, and a line from the Chant was written in delicate hand on the front; _Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, The Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds._ He could not pin where in the Chant the verse came from, but he was certain at one time or another Genevieve spoke it to him.

Blackwall pulled ten royals from his coin purse and then slipped the little bag into the box. He pocketed his ten coins and turned to leave when he was ambushed by a woman in the bright red garb of a Mother. She was young, perhaps even younger than the Inquisitor.

“Maker bless you child,” she gave him a wide smile. Despite her red robes he still found it odd that she called him “child.”

“Thank you,” Blackwall answered unsure. He wasn’t any good at speaking to religious folk. He usually let Genevieve or Cassandra do all the talking when it came to Chantry people. He tried to maneuver to the door without being too obvious.

“You look troubled,” she observed. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Thank you, Mother, but I’m fine. Just dropping off some coin.”

“There was quite a bit of coin in that little bag of yours, can I ask the name of the man giving it away?”

Blackwall hesitated. Did he tell her his name, would it make a difference? It would be another good deed done by a “Warden” it would go a long way in fixing the Grey Warden’s reputation still tarnished by the incident at Adamant. But instead, he answered. “It’s not from me, I’m just the messenger. The gold is a gift from Inquisitor Trevelyan.”

The mother looked stunned and her hand shot up to her mouth. “The Inquisitor? Is she here?” she managed to gasp out.

“No,” Blackwall answered more sharply than he meant to. “I mean, I am just an agent, Mother, all gifts are given in her name.”

The Mother nodded as she reclaimed her calm demeanor. “Tell me, ser, do you know the Inquisitor personally, is it true that she is a mage?”

She did not say mage with the same disdain that many other people did and so he answered; “Yes. But she is a good woman, honest and brave. She is devout too,”

“People call her the Herald of Andraste.”

“They do.”

“Some would call it heresy.”

“And she would call it a misunderstanding,” Blackwall jumped to her defense. He was sick of hearing Genevieve referred to as a heretic. She was shedding her own blood to put this world right and calling her names was no way to thank her for every sacrifice she made.

Blackwall pulled on the collar of his tunic, the incense was becoming a bit too much. His brow furrowed and he locked eyes on the door. “I must take my leave, mother,”

“Oh,” she sounded surprised. “I am sorry I didn’t mean to offend you, I didn’t mean to sound like…like one of those overzealous brats too caught up in their Chantry rank to see how beneficial the Inquisition has been.”

Blackwall stopped. “You don’t think she’s a heretic?”

The mother nodded. “I don’t care what she calls herself, she closed the breach, the men and woman who flock to her side bring stability wherever they go. Only a month ago we had an influx of refugees seeking passage to Val Royeaux, most of them healthy and with clothes on their backs and blankets and food to go around because the Inquisition gave it to them.” She sighed. “I see what the Inquisition does and I envy it, they are doing what the Chantry _should_ be doing.” She sat down hard in one of the empty pews.

Blackwall took a deep breath, he felt true and wholly out of his element. Still, he had to do something to ease her distress. Genevieve might invite her to join the Inquisition, but that was beyond his power.

Finally he said; “I know the Inquisitor, you could say we’re…friends.” He was glad the Chantry was dark enough that the Mother did not see the color come to his cheeks. “And I think I know what she would say to you.” Genevieve probably would have taken the Mother’s hands and kneeled beside her and flashed a pleasant smile. But Blackwall did not have the charming wiles of a pretty woman so he put his hand on the back of the pew and said firmly; “She would tell you to watch over your flock. To give them comfort when times get hard. She would ask you to give sermons on hope and the promise of peace. To encourage the people to help each other. Hope is a powerful thing, she’d say, and that’s what folk need right now. They need hope.”

The Mother smiled. “The Inquisitor sounds like a wise woman,”

“Aye, the wisest.” He agreed, then added; “She’s also funny if you catch her in the mood. And she liked to sing and garden. They distract her from the—from the hard parts of being Inquisitor.”

“I would like to meet her someday,”

“And I hope you do,” Blackwall gave a slight bow and left the Mother to her Chantry. He headed back to the inn for supper and sleep, in the morning he was off to Val Royeaux.

XXXX

His talk with the Chantry Mother did not leave him as boarded the fishing sloop. The rain finally stopped, but the sea was choppy and the wind icy. Blackwall offered to help the fishermen with their work, but the captain insisted he stay below where he wouldn’t be in the way. There was nothing to do below but think, and he was loath to do so.

The stench of fish permeated the air; Blackwall was certain he would smell like it when he finally got off the boat. And that was _if_ he got off the boat. Doing that required not freezing to death, and that was iffy in and of itself. The fishermen slept in hammocks; one had been made up for Blackwall. It was little more than a burlap sack hung between two posts with a blanket. It was the nicest looking blanket on the ship but that really wasn’t saying much.

Blackwall decided to get up and pace. He hoped moving would help dispel the chill from his bones. The hold was too small to simply go back and forth, he went in a circle around the hammocks and let himself think on what he’d said to the Mother.

He wondered if Genevieve would be proud of him for screwing up his courage and offering kind words to the woman. Last night he had hoped that she would find him in the Fade again so he could tell her, even though he feared that she would weasel him into telling him what he was up to. But she did not come, she had his destination and that was all she needed.

The ship rocked hard to the left and knocked Blackwall off balance and when he tried to get back up the ship careened right jarring his hip against a wooden column. He heard the muffled voices of fishermen as they reeled in their nets and lines and battled the choppy water.

Quickly, before the ship could jump again, he got up and sat down in his hammock. Blackwall was not a terribly big fan of boats, but this was faster than riding all the way to Val Royaeux. The faster he got there the easier it would be melt into the crowd.

He wrapped the old blanket around his shoulders and wondered if it would be easier to sleep though the journey; but the churning of his stomach told him sleep would not come easy. Although in all honesty, it was not the sea that made up most of his trouble. He was anxious to see this done, to prove to himself that he was no longer a coward.

It almost felt as if it had not sunk in. As if he knew what he was doing but he couldn’t accept that he was walking himself to the gallows without anyone’s help but his own guilt. Perhaps when they put the rope around his neck he would beg for mercy, get down on his knees and ask the Maker for his forgiveness. For now he felt cold and numb all the way through. Even seeing his lady in the Fade did not warm him as he had expected to—it had set his heat on fire and reminded him his feelings, but it had not made him want to go back any more than he had before. If anything, it made him more stalwart, more certain he had to redeem his honor.

He couldn’t remember everything he’d said to her in his dreams, but he did remember telling her to move on. She deserved a knight or a high lord or a king. Not a cowardly murder that grew a beard on his face and had the audacity to take a good man’s name. Only days before had the thought of her…being with someone else set a jealous fire in his belly. But now the fire had dimmed and he knew she would find a proper shoulder to lean on. She would have a proper man to wed, to have children with, to make a life with. It was for the best.

After a while he dreamed about a different life. A life where he hadn’t given those orders, where he hadn’t taken blood stained gold. He dreamed of an Orlesian military captain with a half-decent salary, a small farm for him to retire to, and a chance meeting with a beautiful Agent of the Inquisition. She was strong, a wild tempest of magic and faith, and yet would need his help. He would pledge his blade to the Inquisition if only to follow her into battle. When they chose her as Inquisitor, no one would support her as much as he would. And when Templars and Mages were dealt with, when the Breech was closed, when Corypheus was finally defeated. She would be released from her duties and he would take her back to his little farm stead and marry her in a small chantry because she would like that.

They would have a dog, and fill the farm house with children. Little black haired ones with eyes as blue as water. Some would have magic, others would be warriors.

It was a dream, a beautiful dream, but nothing made that as clear as when the ship captain woke him and told him he had missed lunch and supper and they were putting into port now. Blackwall forced himself out of the hammock, no easy feat with his aching hip, and gathered up his things.

Once back on land, Blackwall paid the ship’s captain his fare and a little extra. Although he did not enjoy the ride, he was about to see himself hung and had very little need for gold. He used what was left to buy two days board at a local inn in the poor district of Val Royaeux.

“And bring me a late supper, and some whiskey,” Blackwall told the owner after paying his two day stay in advance and slipping him a few silvers more for his trouble

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up, Monsieur Delecourt,” the inn keeper bowed in thanks and one of the maids took him up to his room.

The first thing Blackwall did was check the bed for lice and fleas; it seemed clean despite the location of the inn itself. He then took inventory of the room: there was a rough-hewed chair in the corner, a night stand with a wash basin, and a single window overlooking an alley. It was quiet and out of the way and in a side of town the Inquisitor shouldn’t be seen in.

The maid came back up with a plate of bread and cheese and a bottle of cheap whiskey. She even filled the basin with water so Blackwall could wash his face.

He ate every last morsel of food interspersed with a swallow of whiskey. The drink was sour and burned down his throat, but he wasn’t truly interested in the taste, only the oblivion it offered. His dream of a life with Genevieve had been a lovely and terrible nightmare. He would never have it, _he didn’t deserve it_. Just the thought of what could have been, of what might have happened if he’d been a better man—it cut him to the bone. Before he had been able to disperse the pain with his resolve, but for now, drink would have to do.

There were only a few swallows left when he went to sleep. And best of all, there were no dreams.

XXXX

 

He sobered up the day of the execution. He paid the inn keeper to get his clothes cleaned and get a proper bath, and then before he took his leave he handed out the rest of his coins to the inn maids.

It was raining lightly now but there was thunder overhead. Most people with any sense would go inside. But this was Orlais and executions always drew a crowd. He did not pay them any attention; he was resolute in his mission. He felt it now, hungered for it even—breaking free from the lie he had so carefully cultivated. How many nights had he poured over books on Warden history? Too many to count.

Blackwall saw the rope and the Chevalier and the headsmen before he saw Mornay. The Chevalier was reading the charges from a scroll; Blackwall could not hear him over the rush of blood in his ears.

“…for the murders of General Vincent Callier, Lady Lorette Callier, their four children, and their retainers…” Each name like a stab to the gut. Each word washed shame over him again and again. “…you are sentenced to be hanged from the neck until dead.” He could see Mornay now, kneeling on the scaffold. He was older now. His skin was pale and his eyes glazed over in gray. The Orlesian prisons were not known for their kindnesses. They had broken Mornay as they broke so many others.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the Chevalier demanded of the prisoner. Mornay just looked up at the sky; he was dead already, what more could be said? “Very well,” the words cracked like a whip and the executioner in his horrid skull mask picked the old soldier up, forcing him onto his feet.

The drums began and Blackwall picked up his pace. The executioner put the rope around Mornay’s neck and stepped back towards the trap door lever.

As the Chevalier ordered the headsman to proceed, Blackwall reached the scaffold and exclaimed over the roar of the restless crowd; “ _Stop!_ ” And in that moment as he looked over the crowd, all eyes fell upon him; including a pair of ocean blue ones.

But it was too late to back down now. The Chevalier turned to the people and said in a voice full of disdain; “a Grey Warden,”

Blackwall ignored the man and faced the crowd; “This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him. Orders were given, and he followed them like any good soldier.”

She was there in the back in her most striking armor. It was the armor she wore when she truly wanted to make an impression, dragon bone for strength and stormheart for the green she loved so much. She carried her dragon staff, gleaming gold and every now and then a shimmer of electricity could be seen rolling off the end. She looked gaunt and worried and angry. Cassandra was with her, Varric, and Iron Bull as well. The kind of group she brought when she wanted attention, when she wanted to be seen and heard.

They locked eyes for a moment.

 _Too late to go back_ , he told himself.

He looked to the Chevalier. “He should not die for that mistake,”

“Then find me the man who gave the order,”

Blackwall met Genevieve’s eyes one last time. She looked confused but shouted out; “ _Blackwall!_ ” as if she meant to put a stop to some mummers show going on before her.

“No,” he stepped to the edge of the scaffold. The rest of the world seemed to melt away and it was just them. Her eyes dark with rage and confusion; his knowing he could not escape this fate and how he wished she were not here. “I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall.” She did not know what to make of that. “Warden Blackwall is dead,” he continued. “and has been, for years.” Maker, why did she have to come, why was she so damnably stubborn? He wanted her to love the lie, to leave him be, to keep thinking she loved an honorable man who was a Grey Warden and doomed to slip out of bed one night to find the hidden places where darkspawn congregated.

“I assumed his name to hide, like a coward, from who I really am,”

Mornay looked at him, recognition blooming across his face. “You,” he muttered, his voice raspy and weak, “after all this time…”

“It’s over, I’m done hiding.” He turned again to the crowd, this time he refused to meet her eyes. “I gave the order, the crime is mine. I am Thom Rainer.” The crowd erupted into gasps.

The Chevalier did not have to say a word. The executioner escorted him off the scaffold. He could hear her shouting for him. He did not acknowledge – _could not._

“Blackwall!” her final screech was so full of pain and heartbreak that he hated himself for ignoring her—hated himself more than he hated what he had done to the Callier family—but he did not look at her. He could not.

 


	4. Chapter IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 4 and 5 are what I call “Transitional Chapters” they’re short; the shortest ones I’ve written, because they involve the scenes we saw in the game. This means they contain elements that were taken right from the game, some changed or slightly altered to fit my story. 
> 
> Once again, thanks to enc0432 my beta and best friend. And to everyone who has left kudos and bookmarked, knowing there are people out there who respond positively to my writing make it all worth it. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc... are property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. And I am thankful as a fan to get the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter IV**

The jail smelled of piss and unwashed bodies. It was a fitting home for someone like him. He had a cell all to himself. All through the day and night the cells filled and emptied for some reason or another. Some were drunks passed out and allowed to leave once they sobered, others were thieves sent right to judgment and then to prison or freedom. But he was the only murderer in today.

The guards ignored him; they didn’t even bring him food. He didn’t mind, he wouldn’t be able to eat anyway, not with the sound of Genevieve’s desperate pleas echoing around in his head. At some point he was certain he heard yelling upstairs. He made himself think it was some angry guard captain yelling at his men, but he knew the voice. That voice had once moaned his name in the throes of passion, had laughed at some terrible joke he’d made, had sung in the garden while he watched her work. And now it was angry, demanding to see him.

But she did not see him that day, or the next. He sat on his bench and let his sorrows take him. On the third day he was surprised to see them open the dungeon door and escort a man down to the end of the cell block.

It was Cullen.

“I told her to leave it be,” Cullen said without even looking at him. “But she won’t. She wants to know if you’re okay.”

Thom Rainer did not answer him. Cullen took hold of the bars and rattled them. “ _Maker damn you Blackwall_ , how could you do this to us— _to her?_ ”

“Leave me down here to die Cullen, it’s what I deserve. You should take her back to Skyhold and leave me to my noose,”

“You say it as if it is so easy to sway her,” Cullen smoothed his hair back and looked at the guardsmen. “The Inquisitor wants this prisoner treated well. That means; do not forget to feed him. I assure you; yesterday’s rage is not even the truest extent the Herald’s wrath can take.”

The guard bowed his head. “Of course,” and they walked down the hall to the stairs, Thom Rainer jumped up and grabbed the bars.

“Tell her to move on, Cullen! Tell her to leave me to my fate!” The Commander did not answer and Thom Rainer was left to the silence.

 

XXXX

Another day and night passed; he ate a bit of bread and drank some water. He didn’t speak to anyone, not even the boy they put in the cell next to him. The kid must have been in his teens and he spent the entire night crying for his mother and begging the Maker to forgive him. In the morning they took him away and once again left Thom Rainer alone.

But in the evening, when they were meant to bring him supper, the door opened and it was not bread and water that came through the door. It was the Inquisitor.

She must have stared at him for twenty minutes before he finally gained the courage to speak. But he didn’t meet her eyes; he didn’t want to see the hurt in them.

“I didn’t take Blackwall’s life,” he began. “I traded his death.” She came closer to the bars close enough that he could smell the sweetness of elfroot on her. “He wanted me for the Wardens, but there was an ambush. Darkspawn. He was killed.”

He dared a peak at her. She was in that armor again, all beauty and splendor and power. “I took his name to stop the world from losing a good man.” He took a deep breath. “But a good man, the man _he_ was, wouldn’t have let another die in his place.”

“You thought you would just die and disappear, that I wouldn’t find you?” she murmured.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,”

Her voice broke, “The note you left me. You made me think you went on your Calling. That you were dead or worse.” She sounded angry now. “You broke my heart and you dare to call it better?”

He jumped up, grabbed the bars, and shook them. Genevieve backed up, a sudden fright in her eyes. She could face down Templar behemoths and not bat an eyelash, but the man she loved behind bars scared her—he almost wanted to laugh at the sad story they made. 

“Don’t you understand?” he roared, the bars shook like thunder. “I gave the order to kill Lord Callier, his entourage, and I lied to my men about what they were doing!” He stopped his foot against the stone floor. “And when it came to light I ran, Genevieve— _I ran!_ And my men paid for my treason while I pretended to be a better man!” he looked down at his feet; he could not face the look of fear and heartbreak.

“ _This_ is what I am, little bird! A murderer, a traitor…a monster.” He knelt on the floor and leaned against the bars of his cell. “Wouldn’t you be happier thinking I was a noble man? A Grey Warden, instead of this? I would have saved you the pain of learning all you knew about me was a lie…that you _loved a lie_.”

She was leaning against the stone wall opposite his cell. A miserable smirk came to her face; “Flaming sword,” she swore. “Sweet Maker, I sure do know how to pick them,” then she came towards him and put her hand through the bars and gently placed it on his shoulder. He could feel the thrum of magic in her blood. He had missed it more than anything, he wanted nothing more than to feel her skin on his, to hold her and kiss her lips and tell her it was all a terrible joke and misunderstanding.

“But there was truth to what we had, and there is good in you, I have to believe that,” she whispered gently. He decided not to answer and instead focused on the feel of her touch. “I’ve been called back to Skyhold, something urgent. I don’t know if it’s true or if they’re all conspiring to get me away from you,”

“Good, you need to be away from me. Leave me to face justice for what I’ve done,”

She ignored him. “I sent a bird to Josephine; she’s working with our ambassadors to get you moved into Inquisition custody. I’m leaving men to ensure nothing happens. If they move to execute you, my soldiers will stop them,”

“You should not be using your power to stop a dead man from dying,” he muttered. “Your reputation shouldn’t be tarnished because of me.”

Genevieve rose and she was no longer Genevieve. Now she was the Inquisitor with hard set mouth, cold eyes, and a no-nonsense-I-will-be-obeyed look; “In this matter,” she growled. “I am tired of being told what _I should do_. You, _most of all,_ will not tell me what _I should do_. With time, you will be transferred into Inquisition custody and that will be the end of it.”

“You intend to judge me yourself?”

“I intend to get to the bottom of this,” she corrected. After a moment her face softened and she whispered; “I still keep hoping that this is kind of misunderstanding; that I’ll be able to clear it up and everything will go back to normal…or well, what passes for normal right now.”

And then there was silence. He expected her to leave then, but she didn’t. She leaned against the wall, looked at him, and sighed. He remembered when he first saw her; young and eyes bright with the thought of a grand adventure rattling around in her pretty head. She had spent her entire life in the Circle and though many had paid with their lives to get her out, she was free for once in her life. Now she could pick flowers from the wild instead of draw them as she saw them in books or in walled gardens. The world outside those walls was new and fresh even with the war looming, even with suffering. She had found joy in the simplicity of walking around without a Templar tied to her.

It had been so easy to fall in love with her. She was too youthful, too pretty, too smart, and joyful to not love the moment you saw her. Despite all the suffering she still found it in herself to smile, to pick her lovely flowers, to care for the sick, and to love every man and woman who pledged themselves to the Inquisition. And it was all those things that made him love her—at first when her advances began he thought it was harmless, she was free now to pursue those things the Chantry forbade of mages like love and hope of a family. But then they got to Skyhold after all that had happened and she went to him. _To him!_ For the comfort she needed.

He had been so happy and so terrified that she wanted him to hold her, to comfort her after all they lost at Haven. But he knew the kind of man he was and he told her it couldn’t be. She had simply smiled that sweet smile of hers and told him that she would not be so easily foiled.

And _oh Maker_ she had not. There were sideways glances and winks, her eyes turning soft when they fell upon him during court. Healing touches after a battle and kind words murmured over supper. And even when he was supposed to be dissuading her from him, he couldn’t help but point out plants along the road if only to watch her scrambling down from her horse to study them and then to hear her thank him for his sharp eyes. He had been powerless to her onslaught, though he had hardly put up a fight.

He should not have gone to her room that day. He lied to himself, told himself he was going to give her one more chance to back out. But he had gone up there with the hope that she would finally make true one all her little flirts. He still gave her the chance all the while praying she would kiss him.

It was then when he started calling her “little bird” because her kiss was clumsy and all too adorable. The circle didn’t offer much in learning the ways of romance. All she knew she knew from second hand stories and other unreliable sources. She had also admitted to him that her love of plants drove her to keep to herself as many of the mages her age “found my love of herbalism to be dreadfully boring.” He had chuckled and let his fingers comb through her hair and gave her a very proper, manly kiss.

“You’re fine, little bird,” he told her. And she had smiled, her mouth inches from his and giggled softly “oh, I’m a bird now?” He had kissed her again. “You sing,” he explained. And she said; “badly,” to which he responded; “and you left your gilded cage behind. So yes, you’re a little bird.” Then she told him that she kind of liked it and then it was all about practicing kisses without burning her cheeks on his beard until Leliana interrupted them with Inquisition business and a smile that made him feel like a naughty teenage boy caught kissing the farmer’s girl by a Chantry sister.

“I have to go,” her strained voice brought him back to reality. For the first time since she entered the dungeon did he finally notice how exhausted she looked. Her eyes were tinged in red and slightly swollen, he couldn’t tell if it was from crying or raging or lack of sleep. But the shadows under them told him it was lack of sleep and the pallor of her skin wasn’t the natural paleness of a lady accustomed to the inside life of the circle. And he realized that she had worried herself sick.

“I didn’t mean to make you ill,” he said softly.

She turned to him and scoffed bitterly. “Right, you only meant to break my heart.” Then she sighed as if she wanted to apologize for harsh words. “Oh, you make me _so angry_ , and _so happy_ ; I don’t know if I should hate you or love you or _both_.” He was silent. “I am sick of it all,” she continued. “Of Cassandra, and Cullen, of Corypheus, of those stupid Venatori, and _you!_ ”

“Then leave me here and let me be someone else’s problem.” he stood up and almost reached out to her to wipe her tears away, but he feared what touching her might do to her. He did not want her to break down so completely that the guards would have to come and get her.

“ _I can’t_ ,” she barked. She took a deep, shaky breath, and reached into one of the pouches on her belt for a handkerchief and dabbed her tears away herself. “I have to go,”

“I know,” And then she was gliding down the hall. Just before the door closed he whispered; “I’m sorry,” once again. She did not hear him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out enc0432's work, she does some awesome Dorian/Manquisitor stuff, you'll find her name in the kudo list below or conveniently bookmarked on my profile. 
> 
> Happy New Year, guys!


	5. Chapter V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my New Year treat, as I said before in Chapter 4, 4 and 5 are short and I’m eager to get you all to more…interesting…things. So while I sip champagne and eat black eyed peas (a New Year’s tradition, for good luck) please enjoy Chapter 5 as my gift to you.
> 
> As always, thanks to enc0432 who literally looked over all fifty-thousand words of this monstrosity. And to you, reader, I hope this next year is better than your last and that all subsequent years are better than this one.
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bioware…etc. etc. etc. letting me play in their sandbox… etc. etc. etc.

**Chapter V**

The Inquisition soldiers who came to escort him back to Skyhold didn’t have much to say. They came in the early morning; their captain introduced herself as Captain Dana. She did not seem to like him very much and thought it below her station to be escorting prisoners. But to her credit she didn’t fuss too much about it and made sure Thom Rainer was comfortable enough.

If he thought the journey to Val Royeaux was miserable, the journey back to Skyhold beat its brains out with a stick. Traveling in the cold and wet was hard but traveling in the cold and wet and in irons was worse. At least this time he had a cloak and a tent to sleep in. They traveled slower though and it took a week before the main tower of Skyhold came into view.

It was full dark and near midnight when the guards deposited him into a cell and under the watchful gaze of Skyhold’s elven gaoler. Skyhold’s jails were in better shape than those in Val Royeaux. The cots were clean and there were blankets and the food was better. No prisoner of the Inquisition was going to starve or freeze to death in their dungeons that was for sure.

The jailer brought him broth and bread for a late supper. It was after he ate his supper did he ask her; “The Inquisitor, is she—is she alright?”

The elf shrugged. “I just watch the jails, but I hear she’s been locked up in war council for a most of today and yesterday.”

“I see,”

“You should get some rest; you’re to see the Inquisitor tomorrow for judgment.”

“Tomorrow?” Thom Rainer asked, shocked.

“It’s just what I heard from Ser Marbrand,” the gaolar answered with another shrug. Marbrand was one of Genevieve’s personal guards. Her silent shadow. His place was usually with Ser Brandon on either side of her throne and standing watch outside the war room or outside the door to her personal quarters. He wasn’t a gossip so what he said must have had a kernel of truth to it.

“I figured she would have let me stew a bit.”

“Says she’s eager to get it over with,”

“I see, thank you,” he sat back down on his cot and thought about trying to get some sleep. But instead he spent the night staring up at the ceiling thinking about what he would say to her before the entire court. What could he say but the truth?

He practiced the words in his head; everything you’ve heard about Thom Rainer is true. _All the things I said were true, I made my men slaughter a family, and I lied to my men about what they were doing. And I did it for gold. I did it for a sack of gold and the promise of a higher station._ He had been another cog in the wheel of the Grand Game. A pawn and player in a system the Inquisitor hated so much. What could he say to her but that?

Then a sudden wave of nausea slammed into him and coiled in his belly. Not once in that cell in Val Royeaux did he tell her he loved her, that what he felt was real—that those things he’s whispered in her ear and those kisses he’d given her were genuine. _Maker damn me,_ he thought. She had ridden home knowing the truth of who he was and not the truth of what he felt. He hated himself for it, for forgetting to tell her that she was the most important person in his life. How could he do this to her?

He spent all night thinking about the long trail of mistakes he had made from Skyhold to Val Royeaux and back again. He was so lost in thought the time hadn’t occurred to him until two guards clad in Inquisition raiment came to rouse him.

They were young lads and wore their uniforms proudly. Thom Rainer was certain he knew their names but he was exhausted mentally and physically and couldn’t quite put his finger on them. The biggest lad helped him up and the other one fastened iron fetters around his wrists. Together they lead him out of the dungeon and into the harsh morning sunlight.

The courtyard was full of lesser nobles and soldiers out enjoying the warm sun. Masked faces and uniformed men turned to watch as he was led up the steps to the main hall. Cassandra was standing by the door a look of total disgust on her face. She turned away from him and marched into the hall and all the way up to the main dais.

He knew the rest of the inner circle had gathered in the hall, but he did not bother to see them. The Inquisitor was seated on her throne; the Eye of the Inquisition encircled her head. The spikes that crowned her seat cut the light streaming through the stained-glass windows. The light was almost blinding—just like her.

The Inquisitor was dressed in her finery a neutral expression on her face. He could tell that she was having trouble keeping up appearances; it looked as if she had been crying again.

Josephine stepped forward, her clip board in her hands. She cleared her throat and said; “For judgment this day, Inquisitor, I must present Captain Thom Rainer, formerly known to us as Warden Blackwall.” She looked at the Inquisitor with eyes full of pity. “His crimes…” she paused. “Well, you are aware of his crimes. It was no small expense to bring him here, but the decision of what to do with him is now yours.”

The guards gave him a light push forward and saluted before stepping away from the throne. The Inquisitor shifted in her chair; passing judgment came easy to her, she met injustice with justice, but she would always be uncomfortable doing it.

She looked so sad and it hurt him all the more. This was his fault. He would be a man and face whatever punishment she decided for him.

Finally she took a deep breath and said; “I didn’t think this would be easy, but it’s harder than I thought.”

He bowed his head. “Just another thing to regret,” he shook his head and made himself look at her, to face what he had done. “What did you have to do to release me?”

She crossed her legs in an attempt to appear nonchalant. Maybe to those who only knew her as Inquisitor would see her as calm and collected, but he knew her better. She was barely holding herself together and he had no one to blame but himself for the way her bottom lip gently quivered, to the rasp in her voice.

“Josephine called in a few favors. There are enough people who owe the Inquisition,”

“And what happens to the reputation the Ambassador has so carefully cultivated? The world will learn of how you’ve used your influence. They’ll know the Inquisition is corrupt.” The words fell from his mouth without thought and he mentally kicked himself for being so harsh.

She responded with the grace he had come to expect of her. “Once the world is back to normal, no one will even remember this,”

“I’ll remember,” he croaked. “I accepted my punishment; I was ready for all this to end. Why would you stop it? What becomes of me now?”

Her eyes glanced about the room as if she were looking for approval. She took another deep breath; “You have your freedom,”

Behind him, someone gasped in shock. And just like them he could hardly believe what he had heard. “It cannot be as simple as that,”

She shook her head. “It’s not, you are free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought yourself to be or the Warden you pretended to be.”

For weeks he had prepared himself to die—to hang for what he had done to the Calliers and his men. And to now have it lifted from him. For a moment he thought he couldn’t breathe. Many called her the Herald of Andraste, he wasn’t sure if that was true, but in that moment he believed, _truly believed_ that she had been touched by something divine. How could she give him this? He was a murderer. He did not deserve this. Over a thousand life times he would never be able to repay her this.

“It will take time,” he muttered. “You would accept that? And what I used to be?” He stepped forward; Genevieve raised her hand to stop Cassandra from coming up the dais to stop him. He had once chance, he had to tell her now. Let her know what he felt deep in his heart. “Genevieve,” he whispered. “Little bird, I know I lied to you about who I was, but I never lied about what I felt.”

Another step closer. She was still as a statue, unsure of what to do. “No matter what I was or what becomes of me, _right now_ , I am just a man with his heart laid bare.” He had nothing to give her. But if she asked him for the moon or to bottle the sun or to face down a demon army all by himself he would do it if only for a chance to tell her he loved her. “I leave it in your hands, my lady,”

She did not hesitate. “You were ready to die, but I wasn’t ready to let you go. Your place is here with me,” and with a smirk that spoke of sudden relief, added; “whether you like it or not.”

He wanted to smile, to take her face in his hands and kiss her but one fact remained. “I don’t know how to be with you as Thom Rainer,”

She stood up and it was like they were alone. The window blanketed her in colored light; _like something out of the Chant._ Slowly, she closed the distance between them and smiled; “We’ll figure it out,”

He didn’t know if she could see his smile through his tangle of beard. “Together,” he whispered and no word had ever tasted sweeter. For the first time in weeks, he came to his full height and straightened his back. Her hand came up and her tip of her thumb gently traced his lower lip. He would have put his arms around her but for the cuffs around his wrists.

Turns out he did not need to put his arms around her. He kissed her and it was all that needed to be said. He could not say that she had completely forgiven him, but this was a good start.

Someone—Josephine—cleared her throat and dragged them both back to reality. The Inquisitor turned a light shade of pink and then motioned for the guards. “Please remove the irons,” she ordered. “And then clear the hall, I need to speak with Blackwall. Alone.”

Cassandra raised her hand. “Inquisitor, I must—”

“Cassandra,” Genevieve exclaimed. “Clear the hall.”

The Seeker nodded and started ushering people from the hall, although she was very unhappy about it. They watched as the hall emptied and Cassandra closed the doors behind herself.

Blackwall stepped away from the Inquisitor, suddenly nervous at the close proximity. He rubbed his wrists glad to be free of the restraints. Now that he was free, he wanted to kiss her the way he used to; but she had turned away from him.

“Say something,” she muttered. “Please.”

“What do you want me to say?”

She turned sharp on her heel. “Oh I don’t know?” she snapped, “Maybe, Genevieve _I’m sorry_ I did this; Genevieve, I _shouldn’t_ have left you like that or maybe—” she folded her arms across her chest and her body shook with sobs. But there were no tears, she had cried herself out.

He went to her, to hold her, but she put an arm on his shoulder and pushed him away. “I need time,” she told him. “I—I’m going to the Emerald Graves for a few weeks, when I come back we’ll talk. We will sit down and we will talk about this. _All of it._ ”

Despite her push, he put his hands on her shoulders. “Don’t leave it like this, little bird.”

“ _No._ ” she barked but this time she didn’t push him back. “ _No._ You don’t get to call me that. Everything is not okay.” She turned to face him. “I said we would do this together, that I couldn’t let you go. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not angry. That doesn’t mean that everything just goes back to normal.”

“I didn’t expect it to,” he said. “And you should be angry; but I don’t want you to go on a mission so angry at me that you don’t think about the danger out there. It would kill me if you went out there and got hurt—do you understand me? It would. Kill. Me.” He punctuated each word letting them linger between them.

She tore away from him, magic tingling around them. He could feel the crackle of lightning in the air. Sometimes when she was angry it was easier to express it in power. She had once told him that she had control over her magic even when the rest of the world was tail spinning for the ground and that that gave her more comfort than soft words and calm touches ever could.

“ _Andraste’s Holy Tits!_ ” she roared at him along with another stream of colorful curses she’d learned from her little inner circle. “Damn you Blackwall,” she calmed and the taste of magic left the air. She looked at him, eyes red and puffy. She was in no shape to go anywhere especially a war zone, but he feared what staying here might do to her. “It’s so easy to love you.” She whimpered. “And so damn hard to hate you,”

“Saying sorry is never going to be enough, I will spend the rest of my life making up for what I did and in the end it will never be enough,”

“Cassandra said I should have had left you, but I couldn’t.” she leaned against one of the tables to exhausted to support her own weight anymore.

“I know,”

“I gave you everything. When I woke up and you weren’t there I…” her voice broke. “I...I thought I’d done something wrong.”

“No, no, no Genevieve you could never do anything wrong,” he wanted to hold her to lay her head against his chest and sooth the ache from her heart. Instead he stood arm’s length away from her.

“ _I’m a mage_ ,” she snarled. “There already is something wrong with me. My parents—”

“I _am not_ your parents,” he spoke firmly. “I love every part of you, Genevieve. Every bit. Magic and all. You need to understand this right now; I left because of my failings, not yours. _Never yours_.”

She refused to meet his eyes so he went against his better judgment and took her chin between his fingers and made her look at him. She needed to see how genuine he was. “Do you understand? Not your fault. Mine.” She took a deep, shaky breath, and nodded. He let her go. “We’ll speak when you get back,”

He watched her go through the door to her private quarters and then headed out of the hall and back to his barn. Perhaps it was best they take a break from each other. Inquisition business would give her time to heal and give him time to think on how best to begin his penitence. It was best, he told himself, even though it didn’t feel right.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, check out my awesome beta enc0432. She really has been with me every step of the way. You can find her stories on my profile bookmarked for your convenience or click her name on the kudo list. Thanks!


	6. Chapter VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go, my plot within the plot begins now. And I know, it's not Wednesday, but I don't think you guys mind when i post a little early. Also, now might be a good time to tell you that romance isn't my forte, so this is an adventure for all of us! 
> 
> Enjoy! And a big thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and bookmarks, and as per usual, to enc0432, my beta and best friend.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters, places, etc... are property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. And I am thankful as a fan to get the chance to play in their sandbox.

**Chapter VI**

Everything in the barn was just as Blackwall left it; right down to the carving tools on his work bench and the hay bales he slept on. He examined the rocking griffin he had been working on, it needed pegs and paint. He would finish it later. For now a fatigue like no other had fallen over him and he wanted to sleep in his own bed. He mounted the stairs and without bothering to change his clothes he fell into his hay and was snoring before he knew it.

It was late in the afternoon the following day when he woke. He hadn’t slept so deep and so well in…years. Being free from the lie had lifted such a great weight from his shoulders it felt as if he could breathe again. He stretched, feeling the bones in his back and shoulders pop. He left the loft and found the stable short four horses. Genevieve had taken her pale Anderfel courser leaving her green scaled dracolisk behind. He took it as a good sign, she would have taken her dracolisk if she expected to have to charge into a fight and hope the intimidation factor would give them an edge.

Blackwall gave the beast a nose rub, when he had first seen the creature he’d been wary of its sharpened teeth and all too smart eyes. But it had turned out to be quite an interesting creature. Now tamed, it was gentle as any horse when it wanted to be and as mean and stubborn as any dragon, save the fire, which was more often than not. It seemed to like Blackwall and the other horses, and it fell over itself trying to please Genevieve, but the stable master kept clear for fear of losing a limb.

When they had brought it to Skyhold Genevieve had been ecstatic. She had seen them in her circle tower books but never a real one. And a gift to her no less. Stable Master Dennet didn’t know much about them, but what he did know didn’t give anyone any comfort.

“They’re mean, your Worship,” he had warned her as he brought the creature out for her to see. “And yes, they eat meat,”

“I don’t think this is the kind of…thing…you should be riding.” Blackwall groaned, for what might have been the tenth time that day. A crowd was gathering now, hoping to see their brave Herald tame a savage beast.

“Concern noted, dear, and ignored.” Then she turned to the beast and lifted her hand for it to sniff. “I am not food.” She told it with an air of Inquisitorial authority. “So don’t even think about taking a—” she pulled her hand out of the way suddenly when it took a snap at her. “A bite.”

Sera shouted from across the yard; “If you’re not careful we’ll be one hand short an Inquisitor!” she giggled wildly.

“I’ll just have to take yours as a replacement,” Genevieve quipped. “Now then, beastie, I am not dinner.” She held her hand out for it to see and gently placed it on its snout. “See, I’m not so bad,” just when the beast had lulled her into a false sense of security it turned its head and had the Inquisitor’s hand between its teeth. But before the dracolisk could do any real damage Genevieve boxed its ear and it let go with an earsplitting screech. “Oh relax,” she growled at it, “I’m the one who’s bleeding,”

“Ah shit,” Blackwall cursed jumping into action. He found a handkerchief in his pocket and took her hand in his.

“I’m alright,” she muttered as he examined the bit mark. “It’ll be healed in a cinch,”

“I told you not to get to close to that thing,” Blackwall wasn’t the kind of man to nag, but sometimes she did things one might be tempted to call stupid.

“Well, now he’s had his taste,” she chuckled and shot the beast a glare. “I hope I taste bitter, you fiend,” Fiend would, inevitably come to be the creature’s name.

At the time Blackwall didn’t think it was very funny. But now it was simply that—funny. She hadn’t given up on the monster, despite taking several bites to the hand. And when it fell sick she nursed it back to health, gaining its loyalty in the process.

Blackwall sighed, letting the memory go. “You’re proof that woman can forgive anything,” although he had done more than simply bite her hand. He gave the beast another pat before deciding it would be a good idea to bathe before he went to the kitchens for something to eat. His clothes could use a good wash too, and a little mending. He went back to the barn and found a set of clean clothes before heading to the servant quarters where he could borrow their bathing room.

After his bath he trimmed his beard up a little, but he had decided he would keep it. He needed a haircut too. Genevieve had done it for him before, but she was not here and probably wouldn’t be in any mood to do it either. His next thought was to ask Cassandra, but she was more apt to take his head off if yesterday’s attitude had been any tell and besides, she was probably off with the Inquisitor. Best to just wait, he thought as he made for the kitchen. He managed to get one of the cooks to give him a bit of bread and cheese for his lunch.

Now neat, clean, and fed Blackwall headed back to the barn. His favorite past time was wood carving; since they had arrived in Skyhold he had been working on a rocking griffin for the children in the refugee camps in the valley below. He’d made them bats and leather balls and even a chess board. As a boy, Blackwall’s favorite toys had been his toy soldiers, carved of wood and dressed in the livery of Orlais. A set of wooden warriors would bring some joy to the camp children.

He was envisioning wooden solider in Inquisition garb while chopping wood when he noticed Cullen coming down from the keep and heading right for him. He set his ax aside and picked up the wooden blocks he planned on carving. They met at the center of the barn.

Cullen was not the kind of man who let his face reveal his feelings. He was, however, standing at his full height, chest out. But he didn’t have his sword with him, Blackwall counted that as good luck.

“What you did to your men—”

“You don’t have to say it,” Blackwall interrupted gruffly. He did not need a lecture. “Whatever you have to say, I’ve said it to myself a hundred times over.”

The Commander remained perfectly calm. “The trust between a leader and his men is a bond you broke and that bond extended to people in the Inquisition.” He sighed. “You have been good for the Inquisition. You fight well and you’ve taught our men to fight well. And even though you were lying about who you were; you stood with us and fought with us. I cannot ignore that.” He took another deep breath. “I may not like that the Inquisitor is willing to give you a second chance when there are better men out there to do right by her. I was a Templar; I protected mages from themselves and those who would harm them,”

Suddenly, Cullen had Blackwall by the collar of his tunic. The Templar pushed him back against the work bench and growled; “but let me make this as clear as I can; if you ever pull anything like that again, or I find out you’re not even really Thom Rainer, or if you break that woman’s heart ever again; know that no service you’ve done the Inquisition will save you.” He let him go with a hard shove, turned heel, and left.

Blackwall rubbed his chest where Cullen’s fist has dug into his skin. It was a threat well deserved, especially from a man like the Commander who cared for the Inquisitor like a dutiful older brother. But Blackwall didn’t have to like it, no matter how much he knew he had earned it.

Brushing the assault off, he got back to his work. He decided to sit by the fire where he could throw the wood shavings off into the pit. A tea kettle hung there, half full of water. It was Genevieve’s. She had started spending so much time out in the cold barn with him that she had brought it from the kitchens and hung it over the fire pit so she could make tea.

Blackwall sighed and wondered if she would want it back. Carefully, he pulled on a work glove and took the kettle off the fire and set it to cool on his work bench. He sat down and got started on an Inquisition Infantry soldier.

They used to sit like this: him on one side of the fire, carving something new; she on the other, leafing through papers or reading some book she’d found in the tower library. She always hummed when she made her tea—mint was her favorite. And even though he never drank it, she always made him a cup too. He thought, maybe, if she ever wanted to sit in the quiet barn with him again, that he would try her tea and she could laugh at the face he would make because he would never understand why she would drink crushed mint leaves when there was perfectly good ale in the tavern across the yard.

She would drink her two cups of tea before kissing him goodnight and going up to the keep to sleep in her own bed. And every time he would watch her go, wanting to follow, but never doing it. The hay in the barn was fine for him, but she was woman he wanted to wrap in silk and velvet. Although she was stunning in steal and padded cloth and fish-mail, she deserved the smooth gowns of sweet ladies and noble woman. They were things he couldn’t give her. But he could give her his devotion; he hoped that would be enough to heal the chasm between them.

“When I write this scene do you want to be broody or sullen?” Varric’s all too familiar voice cut through the calm silence.

Blackwall looked up from his work and found the dwarf leaning against the barns wide mouth entry and looking smug like he always did.

“Only a man like you is brave enough to call a man like me broody, dwarf.” The threat lost all credibility when Blackwall laughed and repeated the word “broody” again, and this time holding out the o’s.

Varric chuckled and came to sit down by the fire. Blackwall set his carving aside and expected to get another lecture. When it didn’t come, he said; “Well?”

“Well what?” the dwarf asked.

“Don’t you have something to say?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t you want to give me an earful about betraying trust and breaking the Inquisitor’s heart? I’d like you to get it over with so I can get back to work.”

The dwarf made a pose of mock insult. “Me? Lecture you?” he laughed. “You and I are square, Hero. Besides, Curly covered it quite eloquently I think.” Varric folded his arms over his chest and added; “With the whole Blackwall thing you told a story so compelling even you began to believe it.”

Blackwall scoffed. “That’s nicer than calling me a dirty liar; I suppose I’ll take it.”

“A storyteller believes his own stories, and up until the end you believed you could be Blackwall. And I think you still can, I believe it, Sera believes it, so does the kid. And I know the Inquisitor must believe it or she wouldn’t have let you go.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence,” Blackwall did not mean to sound so bitter, but he didn’t want to discuss all the finer points of his lie with anyone but Genevieve. She was the one who deserved the explanation; everyone else could be left to wonder.

If Varric felt the stinging note in Blackwall’s voice, he brushed it off. “So,” he began. “Word around the castle is Ruffles is planning a ‘three day birthday extravaganza’” the dwarf made a wide sweeping motion with his hands and chuckled. “For the Inquisitor.”

Blackwall nodded slowly, suddenly remembering that of all the things he knew about her, he didn’t know her birthday. “And does…ah, the Inquisitor know about this…scheme?”

Varric laughed. “Hardly, Ruffles knows she wouldn’t approve—the whole self-effacing hero thing. So it’s under wraps. Planning only goes on when she’s away. They’ll tell her eventually, you know, after they get everything planned and the invitations sent out.”

“And why on the Maker’s green earth does it have to be _a three day extravaganza?_ ” Blackwall could already see the tizzy it would send Genevieve in. She had trouble with simply being referred to as “your worship;” being fawned over by kowtowing nobles for three days might actually kill her.

“I heard there’s going to be a tourney,” the dwarf said slyly. Blackwall didn’t pretend to be a brilliant man, but he was smart enough to know why Varric had brought this information to him. Tournaments meant jousts. Blackwall hadn’t been in a proper joust in years, he wasn’t even sure if he could manage it now that he was getting on in years.

“I can see the gears turning in your head, Hero.” Varric teased. “And you know what a good joust means, the guest of honor gives out the award. And I’m sure your lady-love would give you a winner’s kiss.”

“You’re as conniving as they come, dwarf.”

“ _Conniving?_ You wound me Hero. I’m a simple writer looking for the right kind of inspiration. The readers would love this story.” Varric crossed his arms and chuckled deeply. “The brave warrior on the road to redemption rides in the tourney to win his lady’s favor. Readers eat that shit up.”

“I doubt the Inquisitor would let it pass. She would rather the day went unnoticed.” Blackwall insisted. Genevieve was the kind of woman who accepted the role of leader because someone had to and she had the mark anyway. She believed it was providence that the burden fell to her, but she didn’t want to be celebrated for doing her duty. She had told him as much herself. The people needed their hero and she was it, she understood that, but she wanted to serve, not be worshiped. It had only endeared her; she was a woman who did what was right because it was right, not for glory or wealth. It was the kind of thing that made her his perfect opposite.

“Oh, but the people want to celebrate their brave Inquisitor. A tourney and ball is just the kind of thing they need.” Varric reasoned.

“ _A ball?_ ” Blackwall laughed thinking of Genevieve the night of the Winter Ball all done up in military uniform looking as uncomfortable as he had been.

Varric got up from his seat and chuckled. “Now then, the real reason I came down here,” he began. “Ruffles has a list of chores she wanted me to give you. You’re good with your hands so,” he pulled a crumpled note out of his pocket and handed it to Blackwall.

“Alright,” Blackwall said unfurling the note and taking a look. Blackwall had helped with repairs around the keep when they had first settled in and he didn’t mind taking it up again. “Tell her I’ll get started on them tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Varric nodded and headed back for the keep.

XXXX

Most of Lady Montilyet’s chores were simple things. One of the tables in the library had a leg that was too short and needed to be fixed, a door in the main hall stuck and needed to be sanded, the some of the training dummies needed new straw. Others would take more time. The Herald’s Rest tavern had asked for a sign to hang over the entry, the apothecary had requested some more flower boxes and the keep’s carpenter was busy building bunks for soldiers and refugees.

Blackwall was happy to oblige though, working with his hands gave him a chance to think and a chance for everyone to see him working for the good of the Inquisition. He managed to finish the door, the table, and the dummies in the morning and got to work on the flower boxes in the afternoon. By dark, he had built three good sized flower boxes for the garden. He would deliver them in the morning.

After a late supper, Blackwall got back to work on his toy soldiers. He had finished his first infantry man last night and had decided to try carving a mounted soldier. The horse wasn’t coming out as nice as he wanted it to, but it had the likeness enough that no child would even notice the imperfections.

He went to bed, his fingers sore and tried from work and woke up early to deliver the apothecary her boxes. To his surprise, the courtyard was bustling with people, mostly mages and soldiers, going back and forth between the keep and infirmary. Blackwall stopped two young soldiers and asked them to help him carry the flower boxes to the garden.

When they got to the garden they found the elven apothecary deep in conversation with Mage Fiona. Blackwall waited for them to finish and cleared his throat. The herbalist didn’t seem to hear him so said; “My lady, I’ve these for the garden, where would you like them?” she jumped at his voice.

“Oh, just put them anywhere,” she told him. “I’ve much too much to worry about right now. And with her Worship gone as well…” she trailed off and started fussing with an empty potion bottle she had been holding.

Blackwall bid the soldiers to set the boxes down and then sent them off. “Is something the matter, my lady?” he asked the apothecary. Now she was bruising herself picking elfroot leaves and stuffing them into a small satchel. “My lady,” he repeated, this time louder. “Is something the matter, and can I help?” The woman looked so dreadfully frustrated, Blackwall had to offer help.

“Oh it’s just dreadful, Ser,” she answered, voice strained, “there’s a sickness in camps.”

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, and commented. It means a lot to me! Anyway this is the last Friday before I must put my nose back to the College Grindstone, fear not however, this fic will still be updating weekly. 
> 
> Big thanks to enc0432; she really is my best friend and the person who brought Mass Effect and then Dragon Age to my attention and the English Major who has looked over every bit of this story. 
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters, places, etc. etc. ect. Property of Bioware etc. etc. etc. excluding original characters etc. etc. etc.

**Chapter VII**

“We have to quarantine the ill to keep it from spreading any further,” Solas said. The inner circle, minus Sera, Iron Bull, and Cassandra, were gathered in the main hall of the keep, surrounding a table covered in books and apothecary equipment. The elf was grinding herbs into a paste while Dorian and Vivienne babysat the brewing process.

“We’ve already done that,” Cullen exclaimed. The commander himself wasn’t looking so good.

For the past three days, Blackwall and the others had begun a fight they couldn’t win with shields and swords. The sickness had spread like wildfire through the refugee camps in the valley below and was now spreading through the keep. It hit the old and the young the hardest, within four days they had had six deaths—all of them elderly. More deaths were sure to follow.

“What we really need,” Vivienne was stirring a flask of red liquid. “Is the Inquisitor. Without leadership all we do is shout at each other and hope for the best.”

Leliana appeared in the doorway to the library. “I sent out a dozen birds,” she informed them. “But it will still take a few days for her to return. We must hold out until then. I’ve sent my scouts into the woods to collect as much wild elfroot as they can carry.”

Cullen fought back a cough and took a seat at the table. “I want to close the keep; it won’t help anyone if we’re all sick.”

“But the infirmary—” Josephine gasped

“I’ll have my men take everything that’s needed down to the camp and we’ll get a makeshift clinic down in the valley. The infirmary is fit to burst anyway.”

“The Inquisitor had it built to care for the sick and injured, if we close it to those in need then you—”

“The Commander is right, Josie.” Leliana sighed. “This is the best we can do for them.”

Blackwall cleared his throat. “I’ll work with the carpenters; we’ll build some more beds. The least we can do is get them off the ground.” The bunks they had been building for the soldier’s quarters had been repurposed for the sick already, but as more and more people fell sick…the Inquisition had truly not seen this coming. They had safeguards and stockpiles for sickness, but they hadn’t expected it to spread so quickly.

“And we will continue making potions,” Vivienne added. The Grand Enchanter sighed. “It must be said,” she set her flask down and folded her hands together. “That this…plague had moved too quickly to be…”

“To be normal.” Solas finished. “This is magic, we think.”

Dorian nodded. “Or purposeful poisoning with a little magic to help it spread. Which is why we need a sample of whatever water and food is being passed out to the refugees.”

“You’ll have it,” Cullen said. This time the Commander couldn’t help himself from coughing.

“Cullen, you need to get some rest,” Leliana cooed

“I’ll be fine,” he insisted. “We have work to do.” And he got up and went out the doors to give out his orders.

Varric sighed. “Well, Hero. I’m not accustomed to manual labor, but I know how to hold a hammer. Come on kid,” he said to Cole, “let’s go be helpful.”

Cole stood up from where he had been sitting on the table and said; “So hot, it hurts, Maker it hurts.”

“Yeah kid, we know, the flu sucks.”

The two followed Blackwall to the barn. Blackwall had let the carpenters commandeer his space. Sawdust covered the floor and the racket of saws and hammers made the horses nervous. A few new cot frames had been erected since this morning and now they were just waiting for Cullen’s men to take them down to the camps.

Blackwall got to work sawing planks and Varric, true to his word, knew how to hold a hammer. The dwarf nailed the boards together and tried to show Cole how to do it. Cole wasn’t very good at it, but Varric assured him that with practice they would make him a master carpenter. Genevieve had told Blackwall she had helped the boy become more human, but Cole still gave him the creeps no matter how much she doted on him.

“How do you get hair on you face?” Cole asked, watching with mesmerized eyes as Blackwall cut a board of oak in half.

Blackwall sighed. “Ask Varric, he seems to have adopted you.”

Varric laughed. “Oh now, Hero, I’m hardly an expert on the subject.”

“He doesn’t have hair on his face,” Cole reasoned. “Is it a mask?”

“No. It’s a beard.” He wasn’t trying to sound quite so annoyed, but the boy’s constant questions and the way he rooted around in people’s mind was sometimes just too much for Blackwall to deal with. He sighed; thinking of what Genevieve would say if she heard he was being overly cruel to the boy. “Look, if you were any other lad your age I’d tell you that one day you’ll probably grow one too, except I don’t know if spirits that become boys get beards.”

For a moment, Blackwall was certain that he saw a hint of hope under that ridiculous hat. He was suddenly certain that that was what Genevieve saw in him, a lost boy in need of a little hope and understanding.

“I could try,” Cole said.

“So,” Blackwall looked at the boy. “How does a spirit become flesh anyway?”

Cole shrugged and said wistfully. “How does a warden become grey?”

Both Blackwall and Varric broke into mirthful laughter. “You know Cole, you’re not so bad. But I’m not a Grey Warden.”

“I know, you never hid from me,” Cole then started singing that Maker-damned nursery rhyme. Blackwall felt his blood go cold. “To many voices in the carriage, _Maker they’re young,_ ” the boy met Blackwall’s eyes. “If I tell my men to stop, they’ll know it was a lie—cold, trapped, heart hammering like axes on a carriage door.”

Blackwall dropped his saw and clutched at his heart. “Stop,” he croaked. Breathing suddenly become difficult, he leaned against his workbench. Varric kept trying to work to mask that he was listening. “Please,” The boy stopped and cocked his head like a bird. “Cole, if you knew what I am, what I’d done. Why didn’t you tell the others?”

“Everyone hides dead things,” Cole said as if it were something everyone knew. “Everyone pretends. You wanted to fix it.”

Blackwall didn’t quite know how to respond. “But I’m a murderer,”

“You don’t _want_ to be,” Cole implored as if he were trying to reason with an unreasonable child. “You made a new you, you _are_ Blackwall. You killed Rainer.”

“If only that were possible.”

“You would stand between Rainer and the carriage. But you can’t. So you carry the bodies to remember.”

Blackwall frowned and then picked up his saw. He hadn’t even spoken with Genevieve yet, and there Cole was the one reconciling him with himself. It hurt and it didn’t feel right, but he felt better, if only a little.

“I suppose I do,” Blackwall muttered. He went silently back to his work.

XXXX

When Cullen fell ill three days later, they put him in one of the guestrooms in the keep instead of his usual tower. They gave him healing drafts and sleeping potions but whenever he woke he was delirious with fever. And when Krem and some of the other Chargers showed symptoms they put them in cots in the formal dining room just off from Josephine’s office. They put soldiers and servants there too and no one wanted to say it, but they knew the room would fill up before too long.

What was worse, Morrigan, the apostate Genevieve had brought back from the Winter Palace had agreed with Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, and Fiona. The sickness was some kind of poison, mixed in with supplies. From what Leliana’s men could tell most of the supplies had gone down to the valley, but they weren’t going to take any chances, and they burned all the rest in the courtyard. Now they were without fresh food and clean water. Josephine penned letters for aide, but all that could truly be done was pray.

Mother Giselle herself attended their dead. Every night new funeral pyres burned and the ashes were collected to be returned to loved ones. Those who were healthy enough to attend the services spent many nights singing hymns and begging the Maker for any kind of relief. Even those few elves who worshipped their old gods prayed side-by-side with their human companions, asking their Creators for aide.

Blackwall watched the fires burn and was reminded of the time they left Haven, fleeing for their lives. All of them brought together by wanton destruction and grief. _The Dawn will Come_ was such a simple hymn, and it had become the favorite of many of the Inquisition’s followers. It was being sung now that the Revered Mother had finished the Chant.

Varric came to stand with him; they kept a silent vigil for a while until Blackwall could not stand the sounds of mourning anymore.

“When you write this, how will you say it?” he asked far more bitterly then he intended.

The dwarf thought about it for a bit and frowned. “What can I say but the truth? Bad things happen to good people sometimes.”

Blackwall crossed his arms angrily and growled; “It isn’t right, those people were only trying to do the right thing.” Leliana had her people searching for the person who poisoned their supplies. But everyone knew it was a longshot, the person who had done it would be long gone now, if they had even been in Skyhold in the first place. Blackwall’s guess was that it was a Venatori agent or a red Templar or some other shadowy enemy the Inquisition didn’t even know about.

“I hope to see the son of a bitch who did this hang,” Blackwall spat.

Varric scoffed. “Not if I shoot him first.”

They parted with agreeing nods, and went to bed.

The prayers and hymn continued for two more nights before they were finally answered to the shouts of; “Open the gates! Open the gates, make way for Inquisitor Trevelyan!” The gates were opened so quickly, the gears in the mechanism squealed in protest.

Blackwall dropped what he was doing and followed the throng of people to greet the Inquisitor. Leliana and Josephine quickly exited the keep as Genevieve and her companions came riding through the open gate. Both the Inquisitor and Casandra dismounted before their mounts came to a full stop. Genevieve tripped on her momentum, but saved herself and brushed it off with a serious look.

She caught his eye, and frowned before turning to Josephine and Leliana. Cassandra joined them as they headed up to the keep. Bull and Sera came to stand with Blackwall.

“Krem is alright,” Blackwall told the Iron Bull. “The other Chargers too, they’re young and strong. They didn’t get the fever like some of the others.”

“Good, I’d sure miss that Tevinter bastard,” Bull said with a chuckle.

“Rode all night we did,” Sera grumbled. “Got the message from a boy in one of the camps, seems to me we ought to be running away from the sick,”

“We didn’t even make it to the Graves,” Bull added. “Officer at the forward camp had a message from Red, we turned right around. How bad is it?”

“You see the pyres in the valley? It’s not good, I can tell you that. Cullen is sick, fever’s got him.” Blackwall answered and then added. “If you rode all night your probably hungry, you ought to get something to eat and then sleep. Only the strong make it out of this,” he left them and went up to the keep where he found Varric in his usual place by the hearth.

“She went up to see Curly.” The dwarf said. “And she’s not happy, said to our lovely spymaster, and I quote, ‘find the person who did this and _bring_ him to me,’ emphasis on the ‘bring’” he laughed weakly. “She was very serious. Haven’t seen her that mad since…well since she found out you left.” Quickly, he added. “Oh, but don’t worry, this rage is much, _much_ worse.”

“Good to know she’s found something else to be angry at, at least for a while.” He sat down in a chair by the fire and played a game of cards with Varric until Genevieve came back into the main hall looking worse for wear. The inner circle gathered to hear what she had to say and offer their advice.

Ser Brandon, the handsome ex-Templar who acted as one of the Inquisitor’s personal guard, grabbed a chair from one of the tables and set it down before her. She thanked him and sat down. “I’ll be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it,” she turned to Solas and the other mages. “If what you say is right and it’s resistant to elfroot, then—” she paused and crossed her arms in the way she did when she was deep in thought. “If it’s poison have we tried a mix of royal elfroot, spindle weed, blood lotus…” she trailed off when Vivienne shook her head. “I see. What about—”

“I can assure you, Inquisitor, we have tried it.” Solas told her. _And they had_ , they had spent days grinding different combinations of herbs and brewing them into potions. Some mixture had treated the symptoms, others had no effect at all, and one had made the brave test subject violently ill.

“Then I guess I get to hit the books,”

“First you should eat and sleep, Inquisitor,” Leliana said. “None of us want you to get sick.”

Genevieve stood up, rubbed her temples, and sighed. “Okay, you’re right. I think I could use a bath as well.” She turned to the mages; “I have several books on rare herbs that may help us, Maker willing we’ll find something. The rest of you, do what you can to make our people comfortable. And I am to be woken immediately, if something develops or changes.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine bobbed her head.

“Blackwall,” she said his name so softly he almost wasn’t sure he heard it. “Would you attend me?” she turned a light shade of pink so quickly added; “and help Ser Brandon carry books?”

Blackwall jumped up, he didn’t want to seem so eager but by Varric’s smirk he knew he wasn’t doing a good job of it. “Of course, my lady,” he offered her his arm and then guided her up to her quarters.

On the stairwell, with Brandon following a respectful distance behind them, Genevieve shed the Inquisitor’s mask and sighed. “It occurs to me that I am not sure what to call you. Thom? Rainer? Blackwall?”

“Let’s just go with Blackwall.” He answered as he opened the door to her private room. Brandon had taken his place in the stairwell, Ser Marbrand was usually there, but the Templar had fallen sick and his spot had been replaced by a one of Cullen’s soldiers.

“Alright,” she turned to him in the doorway. “I know that I said we would talk when I returned but,” she paused to gather her thoughts. “In light of recent events I think perhaps we should wait.”

“Of course, my lady, I understand.” Blackwall nodded. Truthfully, part of him didn’t mind putting off what would inevitably be an awkward and painful conversation, although the other part wanted to get it over with because it was always easier to take a punch when you knew it was coming.

“Thank you, but um, we’re _still_ going to talk. You’re not off the hook, serah.”

“I pray never to be off your hook, my lady.” a flirt, as natural as breathing. For a moment he was embarrassed and dreaded that it was the wrong thing to say after everything he had done.

Genevieve snorted in an attempt to keep from laughing. “Now then, books.”

With Ser Brandon’s help, Blackwall carried a pile of books down to the mages in the main hall. All of them belonged to Genevieve, collected from their travels, gifted to her by nobles who had discovered her love of herb lore, and saved from circles and chantries all across Thedas. Vivienne seemed rather put out when she examined the books, declaring some of them to be property of the Circle of Magi. Blackwall thought to dare her to try and take them from the Inquisitor; these were some of the books she had saved from when the Circle at Ostwick had rebelled. But the First Enchanter didn’t say anything more about it.

Brandon went back to his post and Blackwall played a round of cards with Varric before going back to his barn and trying to keep his hands busy. They had run out of wood to make bunks two days ago, so he was left to his carving. Eventually, that bored him and he went to the tavern to get a drink.

The place was damn near empty and too quiet for his taste. The good news was that the beer had been tested and it was poison free. He ordered a pint from the dwarven barkeep and listened to the minstrel croon some sad song about Haven. By the end of his second pint that too had lost its savor and he realized that it was helplessness that made him so anxious.

He was no mage and he hardly knew anything about herbs and medicines beyond _don’t drink the blue ones, that’s lyrium_. He hated feeling helpless, and he hated seeing all these helpless people struggling just to survive a damn cough. It was maddening, knowing that there was an enemy of the Inquisition that he couldn’t just fight.

Another day passed and still they had no answer. On the second day of Genevieve’s return she attended the funeral chant in the courtyard and tried to raise people’s spirits with a small speech about how much they had endured and how they would keep enduring. She went right back to her books after.

“I think I’ve got it!” Dorian suddenly shouted on the afternoon of the fourth day. He held up the book and someone went to get Genevieve, Morrigan, and Fiona.

The inner Circle gathered around one of the tables in the hall, waiting for whatever news would come from Dorian’s book.

Genevieve took a long glance at the book and smiled. “Oh Dorian, I could kiss you,”

“And I would let if you were my type,” he laughed and put a caring hand on her shoulder. “But I am truly magnificent aren’t I?”

“You have sharp eyes,” she chuckled and beckoned the other mages to come see.

The mages gathered around the book and everyone waited on bated breath as they debated it. They all seemed certain it would work, what they couldn’t agree on was where it grew. Solas insisted it grew in rare clumps in the Hinterlands; Dorian was certain it only grew in Tevinter; Morrigan had seen it in the Kocari Wilds; and Vivienne thought it extinct.

“May I be so bold as to ask what it is?” Varric shouted over the arguing.

Genevieve answered. “Purple-veined elfroot. It’s rare.” She held up the book to show them. Blackwall thought it looked like any other kind of elfroot.

“There are other types of elfroot?” Blackwall grumbled. How she memorized all the different kinds of plants out there he would never know.

“Oh, lots of kinds,” she told him with a smile. “Royal, green-leaf, common, the list goes on.” She shook her head. “Getting off topic, the Hinterland’s matches its preferred climate conditions. Our best bet it there,”

“It’s still a longshot at best,” Vivienne warned. “Don’t get your hopes up for nothing, dear,”

“Right now it’s the best shot we have.” Genevieve read through the passage again. “I think it might be the only chance we have,”

“Then who are we sending after it?” Solas asked.

Genevieve marked the page and closed the book. “Me, of course.” She said, it was met with protests. She raised her hands and made a calming motion and waited for them to quiet. “I will not risk someone picking nightshade, I am going and I will hear no more about it.”

“I am more than capable of—” Solas was about to argue.

“Taking care of the sick, that’s what I need you for Solas.”

Blackwall stood as the others prepared to make another argument. “You heard the lady,” he told the mages. They ignored him.

Cassandra, who had been surprisingly silent through the whole conversation rose from her seat. “I don’t see why you can’t delegate to someone else. The people have courage when you’re around,”

Genevieve crossed her arms and let them all say their piece but she politely ignored them. She turned to Blackwall and beckoned him to her side. “Blackwall, Cassandra, Bull,” she said. “We leave for the Hinterlands in the morning,”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this whole sickness thing came out of a silly conversation me and my beta had the first time we got to Skyhold and both of us, outside of our majors are both history geeks. This got us talking about the middle age warfare which inevitable led us into a conversation about how so many people in such close proximity could easily get sick and how they have magic, who’s to say they can’t weaponize an illness? 
> 
> This is the end product.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that my fan fiction is rated “M” for violence. 
> 
> Big thanks all around to anyone who has left kudos, bookmarked, and commented (remember, I love comments and I will always respond). You guys are awesome! Two things, I am moving to a consistent update time of twice a week. And I start my next semester tomorrow; I hope to release some oneshots and shotfics to help keep me alive. Seriously though, you guys are the best and you’ve been making my year.
> 
> As always, my fabulous beta enc0432 has gone through every chapter of Roses so check her out for me! She and I also exchanged oneshots this week, hers features Blackwall and Genevieve, mine her elf Mahanon and Dorian, we would really love it if you guys checked them out. You’ll find enc0432 on the kudo list or bookmarked on my profile. 
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters, places, etc. etc. etc. property of Bioware etc. etc. etc.

**Chapter VIII**

Captain Cassel was the Inquisition’s garrison leader in the Hinterlands. He was Ferelden and carried himself as such. So when Genevieve’s dracolisk, Fiend, came to halt in front of him and snorted irritably, he didn’t bat an eye. Blackwall couldn’t help but smirk as the Inquisitor dismounted and apologized for the creature.

“It’s no matter your Worship.” The captain said before jumping into business. “I received your bird. It’s an awful long way to go for an herb, milady.”

“An herb that might save a lot of lives,” Genevieve said with all the grace someone could have when a dracolisk was laying it’s head on their shoulder. The beast’s bid for attention did not go unnoticed; she rubbed his nose and asked the captain to find someone to feed and water their mounts while they rested.

Blackwall dismounted his chestnut gelding, barrowed from the stables since he had sold his own mare back in Sabine. It wasn’t nearly as surefooted as his mare had been but it kept up with the others and was agreeable. Still, it wasn’t his horse and he missed her all the more for it.

“We have daylight left, we should keep moving,” Cassandra advised as Genevieve pulled a map out of her bag and spread it over one of the camp tables. Blackwall went to help her, but Cassandra stood in his way as part of her passive-aggressive ignoring his existence behavior. Blackwall figured he deserved it but it was starting to get on his nerves.

“I know, Cassandra,” she sighed, the Seeker’s attitude was wearing on them all it seemed. “I just want to look at a map. I think the Witchwood is where we should begin our search.” Genevieve said. She delicately pushed Cassandra out of the way so Blackwall could see the map for himself. “It’s a few hours ride from here, can we make it before nightfall?”

“I should think so,” Blackwall answered. These last few days on the road with her had been cordial. She had always valued his advice and opinion; at first he was nervous about giving it, but she had insisted. He was happy to learn that she did not think any less of his assistance.

“Then when the mounts are fed we should keep going. Speaking of food, I could use a snack.”

“Same here, boss,” Bull chuckled, he had already helped himself to their rations. The qunari pulled a chunk of beef jerky for the Inquisitor and handed it to her. Captain Cassel offered them a skin of wine as well; Genevieve was not the kind of woman who passed up the hospitality of her troops and took a few sips.

She offered some to Blackwall. “No thank you, my lady. I think I’m going to take a walk and stretch my legs a bit.”

“Suit yourself,” Bull laughed and took the wine from the Inquisitor.

Blackwall took the path down the cliff to the crossroads. The little village had been cleaned up and repaired since the last time he had been there, and people were about and there no violent Templars or mages running amok. It was peaceful, simple. He liked it that way.

After riding for so long, a walk was a welcome respite. He was getting up in years and it was getting harder to ride for days the way he had when he was young. His right leg had cramped up something awful the other day. It was worse today so he walked the length of the village and felt it relax some.

On his way back up to the camp he came upon a rose bush. Absentmindedly, Blackwall picked one of the flowers and presented it to Genevieve. It was only when he had shown it to her that he realized that this was not _before_. That they had decided to distance each other for the sake of clarity only a few days ago, and now here he was, mucking it up.

Quickly, Blackwall cleared his throat and retracted the flower. This was worse than what he had let slip in stairwell when she had returned to Skyhold. “I am sorry,” he muttered nervously. _I am such a fool_ , he thought.

“No it’s…” she looked as uncomfortable as he did. She had almost taken it, a smile on her face—that one smile that was only for him, the one that promised kisses and gentle caresses—but it had fallen into a frown when she remembered that she was still angry at him. “Thank you,” she reached for it and gently plucked it from his hand, her fingers did not linger as they would have before. “It’s beautiful.”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and crossed her arms. Genevieve rolled her eyes and examined the rose.

“Old habits,” Blackwall explained. “Forgive me,”

“There are worse practices,” she said abruptly before going back to the map. It made him feel a little better knowing it was difficult for her to break the habit of _togetherness_ too.

He went to sit with Bull and watched Genevieve fuss with the flower he’d given her. She sandwiching it between two sheets of paper. It was what she did when she wanted to save flowers; it made his heart swell when she tucked it into the book she’d brought with her. With gentle hands, she folded up the map so she could stow it in her pack.

“Thank you, captain,” Genevieve smiled as the captain helped her mount Fiend. Blackwall remembered the first time he had seen her mount a horse and to this day he had no idea how someone so damnably short could do it. “Keep up the good work, ser,”

“Of course, your Worship. Far be it from me to let the Inquisition down.”

The Inquisitor saluted her troops and led them down the path to the crossroads before turning towards Redcliffe Farms and the Witchwood.

XXXX

The destruction from the mage and Templar conflict had not yet been repaired although Blackwall was happy to see that the fires were out and the peaks of magicked ice had finally melted. Any salvageable wood had been taken and repurposed. The watchtower the Inquisition had built was manned by a few Redcliffe men, they hailed the travelers with a blunted, whistle-tipped arrow and Genevieve responded with a wave and a smattering of Ferelden yellow sparks from her dragon headed staff.

The Witchwood loomed before them. She was not the largest wood in Ferelden, that honor belonged to the Brecillian Forest, but she had seen some of the most magically charged fighting Ferelden had probably ever seen. Her trees wore the marks of it, some burnt to shells of themselves, others ruined from a sudden freezing, and yet some were bent and twisted in some wild dance when the mages had used them for their own purposes. In the gathering night, the shadows cast gave the wood a fearful appearance.

But Blackwall was not a man to fear forests or even what lurked within them. He was more at home under a canopy of trees then he was under stone walls. Years of lonesome traveling had made him accustom to the eerie quiet that could setting on a wood; but now he was used to traveling in a group, especially with sweet company that sang when she grew bored.

Now Genevieve was singing a silly little rhyme from the Free Marches about greasing up a wheel of cheese for racing and she did not stop until she had decided to make camp.

“I’m going to go for firewood,” she told them as she tied Fiend’s reins to a tree, away from the other horses.

“I’ll go with you,” Cassandra declared.

“It’s alright, I’ll be right back,” the Inquisitor insisted and then turned around and walked off into the woods.

Blackwall waited only a moment before saying. “She shouldn’t go out alone,”

Bull shook his head. “She’s a grown woman, and I’ve seen her light men three times her size on fire, she’ll be fine. Probably just has to piss,”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and said; “Sometimes the mark pains her, she likes to be alone when it does,” she told Bull, Blackwall noticed with annoyance.

“Speaking of piss,” Blackwall muttered quietly and slipped into the woods after the Inquisitor.

He found her a little ways out leaning heavily against a tree sipping from a small flask. She did not hear him approach so he said; “Are you alright, my lady?”

She jumped with a small yelp and dropped the potion against a rock. The flask shattered, spilling the silvery blue and green potion onto the forest floor. “ _Maker’s Breath_ ,” she cursed, pressing her hand against her heart. “Blackwall, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to sneak up on people in the woods?”

But Blackwall was not listening. He was firmly focused on the potion; he had seen her make them for Templars. “Is that lyruim?” he demanded gruffly. She did not answer so he went up to her and she backed up against the tree, like a child who’d been caught writing on the walls. “Genevieve is that—”

“Lyrium mixed with elfroot, blood lotus, and spindleweed. Yes.” She muttered, she had been caught, what argument could she make? “It’s what I make for Ser Brandon and the other who are quitting,”

Blackwall wasn’t quite sure how to process this information. He had caught her in the dark, drinking a potion she made to ease the pain of lyrium addicts. What was he supposed to say? What _could_ he say?

He swallowed bile and gently said; “Genevieve, are you addicted?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly,” she whispered.

“Define not exactly.” He was trying not to sound so harsh, but she had told him herself that lyrium was highly addictive and the more you used it the more you needed. _Like power in a bottle_ , her exact words came flooding back to him.

The Inquisitor took a deep breath and let it out shakily. Nervously she combed her fingers through her hair and he wondered if she _would_ tell him, or if what he had done had made it too hard to confide in him. She moved past him to sit on a slab of rock, the moonlight fanned over her, and he could see the streaks of wet on her cheeks.

“When you left,” she muttered, taking a cloth from her belt and swiping her eyes. “When you left I thought you had gone on your Calling. I went to Leliana first to have you tracked down, and then two scouts came in and told us they had seen you on the road to Val Royeaux. We took off after you, hoping to catch up.”

Blackwall thought to go to her, to wrap his arms around her and let her know that he was sorry, but when he stepped closer she wrapped her arms around herself and turned away from him.

“I was so scared,” she continued. “We lost the trail and I didn’t know what to do so…and I had Fade-walked before, I didn’t have enough mages but I have the mark. I took—” she was shaking now. “I took lyrium and used the anchor to well, to anchor myself.”

Blackwall hated himself for asking, but he had to know; “how much?”

“Three vials,”

“Maker’s Balls,” he cursed. “ _Three?_ ”

Genevieve scoffed bitterly, “I was sick afterward, I’ve never even finished a whole flask during battle. I was so ill Cassandra wanted to turn around and take me back to Skyhold. Varric told her it was grief and that I would be better once we found you.”

Blackwall felt his stomach lurch. She had risked demon possession and death to find a lying cutthroat bastard like him in the Fade. He had never loathed himself so much, never been so disgusted with what he had done at this moment. He had done evil things in his life, wicked _terrible_ things, but he never thought he would ever turn the woman he loved to addiction.

He vaguely remembered falling to his knees, all he knew was that she was there beside him not a second later telling him in desperate whispers; “But it’s okay, I’m using the potion to break the habit, and I’m not even sure it was much of a habit in the first place. I was so sick I didn’t even want to drink my first detox draft, but I did because I didn’t want to risk it. I’m at seventy-five percent lyrium right now, but I’m getting better. I’ll be alright. Mages don’t get addicted like non-mages do, so all I have are headaches mostly, I swear, I just—”

She quieted when he gently placed a finger to her lips. “Hush, little bird,” he whispered. He knew she had told him not to call her that, but he could not help himself. Then he pulled her to him and they fell back against the cold ground. He buried his face into her neck; although no tears came he shook against her in silent sobs. He did not deserve to hold her or to cry against her skin and accept the soothing comfort she offered him, but he would not let her go, _Maker_ , he would _not_ let her go. She did not push him away; instead, she took hold of the fabric of his doublet and held him closer.

Finally, she sat up and he followed. He smoothed her hair back and flicked a tear away with his thumb. “I am so sorry,” he murmured. “ _So, so, so, very sorry._ ” He took her hand and pressed a few kisses to her fingertips. “I should I have just told you the truth, I shouldn’t have run, I should have…” she interrupted him, although she did not take her hand back.

“You may have left, but I’m the one who drank the lyrium. I knew what it would do to me, I knew what could happen. I took the risks. The consequences are mine.”

“They should be mine,” he growled, more at the Maker and His game than to her.

“But they are not. It was a price I paid. And I would rather have you alive and be addicted to lyrium then you dead be addicted. I may not want to stop if you were dead.” She confessed. “And it’s true,” she went on. “It makes me feel powerful, _strong_. It makes me feel like I could take on a dragon all by myself.” Now she took her hand back, but only so she could press it to his face. “But I would much rather take that dragon on with you,”

Blackwall could not help but chuckle. “I’d rather we didn’t take on any dragons at all,”

“That makes two of us,” her laugh was not carefree; it was heavy with anxiety and what Blackwall was certain was fear. She stood up, offered him her hand and helped pull him to his feet.

Genevieve quickly picked up the bits of broken glass and then smoothed some dirt over the remnant of the potion. She looked up at him then and sighed, “You won’t tell anyone?” she asked.

Blackwall shook his head. “No, I won’t tell anyone. But you have to promise me, if you…if you relapse or you get sick, you’ll tell me, you’ll tell _someone_ and get some help right?”

“I promise,” she whispered. “We should get some wood and head back, Cassandra is probably beside herself with worry,”

When they returned to camp, Cassandra ignored Blackwall and gave the Inquisitor a short lecture on going off into the woods by herself for so long. Blackwall sighed and stacked up firewood for the night, Bull nudged him when he took a seat and winked. Blackwall rolled his eyes and let him think what he wanted.

Supper was salt beef and crackers washed down with the rest of the wineskin Captain Cassel had given them. Blackwall offered to take the last watch, since he tended to wake early anyway, Cassandra took the first and promised to wake Genevieve for the second.

Blackwall could not sleep in light of what he had learned. He tossed and turned during Cassandra’s watch. He could not help but think of what he’d seen from those recovering like the Commander and Ser Brandon. Sometimes when the withdraws got bad they moved around like wraiths, eyes blank, skin pale, and when you spoke to them they hardly seemed to hear you.

Genevieve had created her potion to help ease the suffering and Blackwall was forced to ask himself if the potion was the only thing keeping her from that ghost like state.

When Genevieve’s watch rolled around and Cassandra bedded down for the night, Blackwall thought about getting up to speak with her, to ask her what she had meant when she told him that the lyrium didn’t effect mages the same as it did non-mages, but instead he chose to watch her. If she had noticed he wasn’t sleeping, she didn’t say anything. She merely made a cup of mint tea and twirled a little spell wisp about her fingers, making the little ball of light dance in the air like a firefly.

_Such beautiful magic_ , Blackwall thought as the spell twirled in the air casting light across her face. He had be told his entire life that magic was dangerous, and even Genevieve had insisted that she was the most deadly thing in Skyhold. That was why she insisted that Ser Marbrand be one of her personal guards.

When one of the Redcliffe mages took offense to Ser Marbrand she told the woman plainly that the Templar was doing as the order had originally intended, protecting a mage from those who would harm her and protecting the people if she be possessed. And then the whole chamber had erupted into a debate Blackwall could not follow. _The Circle was doomed to fail_ , Genevieve had told the group when she had decided it was time for the argument to end, _but saying all Templars are evil is like saying all mages resort to blood magic._

But as she made the little light dance back and forth he could not help but think that maybe the Chantry was wrong about it. Genevieve had only ever used her powers for good. Although he had seen her strike bandits with lightning and pull a rock from the Fade to smash against red Templars, but she did that to protect herself and others. The magic was not evil, and neither was the woman wielding it.

The Inquisitor flicked her wrist and the wisp disappeared. She finished her tea in a few quick swallows and dug around in her pack. Blackwall watched her fish out a package of nug jerky and then go over to Fiend. She fed a few pieces to the dracolisk, giving him a gentle swat when the beast grew overzealous and almost took her fingers with the jerky. He was certain he fell asleep then, because the next thing he knew, Bull was shaking him for his watch.

Blackwall stoked the fire in hope of putting some warmth back into his bones. He didn’t care for tea so he heated up a little water and drank it. Cold dew had settled on the ground, and Cassandra, though she would never admit it, was shivering in her sleep. Blackwall took the blanket from his bedroll and laid it over her. He went back to his place by the fire.

An hour must have passed and the sun was not yet up but he could see the tinge of blue on the horizon. The other would be up soon; he thought they might appreciate a warm breakfast so he got to work skewing salt pork on a sharpened stick to roast and toasting hardtack on a hot rock.

Bull woke first and helped himself to food. He lamented loudly that they didn’t have any wine left and that woke the women. Cassandra took note of the extra blanket, balled it up, and threw it at Blackwall. From across their small clearing, Blackwall could see Genevieve roll her eyes.

“Well,” Genevieve began with a yawn. “We should stick close to the rocks, maybe near The Rebel Queen’s Ravine? This plant seems to like rocky soil.”

“As you say,” Cassandra grunted and handed her something to eat.

XXXX

Cassandra was the first to spot them. They had covered their armor in mud and stuck close to the brush, but there was no mistaking their pointed helms. Venatori, one a mage, two swordsmen, and a giant of man carrying a battle ax. They were hard at work setting up an oculara.

“We can surprise them,” Bull hissed. They were crouched behind a rock below the cultist, watching them. When Cassandra had spotted them, they left their mounts in a clearing and slowly walked to the cliff side.

Genevieve took another look over the rock and then turned back to her companions. Blackwall saw wrathful look in her eyes. When they had discovered that the oculara were made from the skulls of Tranquil she had ordered that any found be taken down and the victim be given a proper burial. To see the Venatori putting another up had brought on a fresh wave of anger.

“Bull flank them left, go for the big one.”

“My pleasure boss,” Bull kept to a crouch and headed for their left flank.

“Cassandra, Blackwall, take the right.”

Blackwall made sure his shield was properly strapped to his arm and nodded. He and Cassandra stayed low to the ground, the rocky hill made it difficult to stay quiet, but any moment Genevieve would strike bringing the Venatori’s attention to the front and he, Cassandra, and Bull would be able to take their flanks.

There was a loud crack and a flash of purple light, then the sound of Bull screaming in Qunlat. Cassandra shouted her favorite warcry “ _for Most Holy!_ ” and ran to meet one of the soldiers.

Blackwall blew into his warhorn, to signal Genevieve that they were pressing the attack. He then threw all his weight into his shield and tackled the spellbinder. They tumbled to the ground, magic swirling about him. The spellbinder was about the hit back when Blackwall felt the warm embrace of Genevieve’s barrier. The Inquisitor had climbed up the hill to better see what was happening. She struck the other mage with a bolt of lightning, and Blackwall to his chance to finish it. He struck so hard he was surprised the blow didn’t cleave the stick-thin man in two.

“Blackwall!” Bull yelled joyfully as he kicked the axman towards him. Blackwall struck where his armor was thinnest and hamstrung him. Genevieve finished him off as he fell to the ground before turning to Cassandra and yelling “Down!” Cassandra dove and covered herself with her shield as Genevieve raised her hand and air around the two swordsmen burst into flame.

Cassandra jammed her blade into the first man, killing him while the other one swung his sword over his head like a wild savage and tackled the Inquisitor. Blackwall ran after the man, Bull on his heels as Genevieve and enemy tumbled down the hill.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra cried. Genevieve’s staff flew from her hands when they finally stopped falling.

Blackwall almost tripped on his way down, but he was ready, to avenge or protect.

“Maker take you!” he heard Genevieve yell, the soldier was on top of her, he had lost his sword but was trying to get his hands around her neck. At least she was alive.

Bull reached them first and gave the soldier a kick so hard it must have shattered his ribs. The man rolled over, trying to breath and Genevieve took the dagger she usually used for cutting herbs, and stuck it into the man’s chest finishing him.

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor muttered weakly. Bull pulled her to her feet and Blackwall was on her immediately.

“Are you alright?” he demanded as he brushed dust from her face. There was a cut on her forehead and cheek.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” Genevieve insisted. Cassandra came rushing down the hill asking he very same question and she got the very same answer. “A few cuts, a few bruises. I’m sure I’ll be sore. Nothing a little rest and a healing potion won’t fix.”

Still, Cassandra insisted that she stay seated while she drank a potion and the others cleaned up the bodies and the fetched the horses. Bull set the Venatori corpses on fire at the bottom of the hill and put their helms on a rock so that anyone passing by would know what they were. Cassandra prepared the funeral pyre at the top of the hill while Blackwall went and got their mounts.

When he returned, Cassandra had placed the Tranquil skull in the center of a pile of wood she had built into a square. Genevieve was knelling already, mouthing words of prayer to herself. She had once told him that her love of herbalism meant spending time in the garden where many Tranquil worked. They had been her friends, the oldest of them instilling in her a love of hard candy. She, her brother, and Ser Marbrand had saved many of the Tranquil when the circle at Ostwick fell, but they had perished at the Conclave.

When she finished her prayer, she turned to Blackwall. “I will never understand this,” she muttered.

“The Maker will judge them accordingly,” Cassandra told her.

“And it is our duty to send them to Him,” Blackwall grunted. A righteous rage from a righteous woman, a fitting end for people who served the creature that murdered so many innocent people at the Conclave and who continued to murder the innocent.

Bull came up behind them and said gruffly; “Vint bastards,” then he said something in his Qunlat that sounded like words for the dead. “You do your thing, boss, I’ll keep watch.”

Genevieve thanked him, Cassandra kneeled on her left and Blackwall took her right. He would not call himself a man of faith, but he believed in the Maker and he believed the dead deserved the respect of a pray and a pyre.

“The Light shall lead her safely,” Cassandra and Genevieve began in unison. Blackwall struck flint and the dry wood of the pyre caught fire. “Through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water…” he did not know the Chant as they did, so he could only listen and hope that that was enough.

When the dirge was over, they stood and were on their way. It was all they could do.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addiction cannot be solved by a few potions, a few tears, and some hugs. As a criminology major I have seen and studied the effects of addiction. Addiction ruins lives. If you or a loved one has an addiction, please, find some help. Get support and offer support in return. I am not trying to preach, I say this because I care.


	9. Chapter IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is chapter nine! Thanks for all the feedback guys, I appreciate it! 
> 
> My beta enc0432 claims this was her favorite chapter but you guys be the judge. 
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters, placed, etc. etc. etc. property of Bioware etc. etc. etc.

**Chapter IX**

Blackwall’s gelding came to a gentle stop in the slow moving stream and bent its head to drink. He dismounted; his boots were heavy and thick enough to protect him from the water. Genevieve had sent him after fresh spindleweed and he had found some. He wasn’t sure how much she wanted so he sifted through the mud and pebbles and hoisted the plant up by the roots. Quickly, he mounted up again and rode back to the others. 

The Inquisitor was sitting on a dry patch of grass using a rock and the flat of her knife to mash fresh elfroot into a paste. She had told them she was fine, but the tumble she had taken down the hill had left her cheek bruised and swollen.

“Spindleweed, my lady,” Blackwall said. He dismounted and handed the plant, roots and all, to her.

“Perfect,” she smiled and winced.

“You should have told us earlier,” Cassandra grumbled for the third time since they had stopped.

Genevieve ignored her and took the spindleweed from Blackwall. She took a small piece of root and mashed it up with the elfroot and then scooped the poultice from the rock and smeared it on a big leaf of weed. Gently, she pressed it onto the bruise and, holding it in place with her hand, got up.

“Alright then,” she cleaned her dagger on the hem of her shirt and put it back on her belt. “Let’s get moving,”

“Are you going to ride like that?” Blackwall asked. She had one hand still on her cheek, keeping the poultice in place.

“Oh, will everyone leave me _alone?_ You all get some of the worst injuries I’ve ever seen and brush it off like it’s nothing, but the moment I get a little scraped up you watch me like a newborn with a bellyache.”

Blackwall sighed and helped her up onto her dracolisk. There wouldn’t be any arguing with her. Still, Cassandra tried.

“Your health is more important than ours, Inquisitor; you’re the only one who can close the rifts.”

This time Genevieve sighed, Blackwall knew she was about to whip out her Inquisitorial voice; “There are sick people counting on us, Cassandra. We will not fail them because I fell. And I will not hear any more about it.” She cleared her throat. “Remember, taller than regular elfroot, shorter than royal, and with purple veins.”

They picked along the rocks making their way toward the Rebel Queen’s Ravine. They stopped twice, once for Genevieve to refresh her poultice and then again when Cassandra thought she had spotted the rare herb they needed.

“Cass, that’s nightshade,” Genevieve told the seeker with a light chuckle. So they continued along and into the ravine. At one time there had been an Inquisition Camp there, but the men had been moved to protect the road to Redcliffe. The remnants of the camp remained however, a patch of dead grass where the fire pit had been, a wind torn flag of the Inquisition, and a scrap of canvas that might have been a tent at one time.

According to Genevieve’s book the rocky soil here was perfect for purple veined elfroot. It proved true, because she suddenly dismounted, discarded her poultice and started digging in the ashes of the pit. “Maker be praised,” she muttered. “It’s a seedling, but that means there must be more. Tie the beasts up; we’ll walk along the canyon.” She left the seedling alone; she never picked immature plants if she could help it.

They followed the ravine out into the valley, Genevieve leading them at a quick and eager pace. The faster they found the elfroot the faster they could get home. She was not showing it now, Blackwall noticed, but as they day had dragged on, the slope of her shoulders had stated falling slack, and she had not sung a note either. The last time he had seen that look had been after Haven, as they trekked across the icy Frostbacks, desperate for shelter.

From his betrayal, the sickness, to her lyrium problem, Corypheus, and Red Templars Blackwall wasn’t sure how she managed it all. He wanted to be there for her, as he had before, but even last night when she had let him bury his face in her neck and had held him, it had not felt the same. The chasm between them was widening as stress bore down on her shoulders. And now she was no longer comfortable turning to him.

He couldn’t stop the wave of guilt that overtook him. He bent over under the pretense of looking for elfroot, but it was truly to hide the rush of shame. She had told him she wanted to work this out, to make it work, but what if she changed her mind? Would he be able to live with himself then? Would he be able to follow the woman he loved to the void and back knowing that he had ruined the best damn thing he had ever had?

Quickly, Blackwall straightened and took a deep breath. He’d fallen behind the others. He found them standing in a line, staring up at an almost perfect spiral of a hill. At first he was confused, then he saw the slight movement of one of the big rocks at top.

“Oh,” he muttered to himself. Because it wasn’t a rock, it was a dragon, sleeping soundly, and basking in the waning sunlight. They had stumbled upon a dragon’s nest. He looked around them and finally noticed the burnt corpses of trees, a bronto corpse fouling a nearby pool of water, and some bone rotting in the sun and felt like a total fool for having missed them.

He turned around thinking they were going to get out of there, but no one moved. Genevieve was holding out a delicate finger, pointing at the side of the hill. All along the rocky outcropping the herb they had been seeking peppered the hillside.

Genevieve looked at her companions. Blackwall thought Cassandra’s jaw might hit the ground. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“It’s sleeping; I’ll be in and out in, real quick.” The Inquisitor promised.

Blackwall could not believe what he was hearing, and even though Cassandra had been ignoring his existence for the past week, they exchanged as glance and he said; “Are you daft? Did that fall scramble your brains?” and he knew he had said the wrong thing as soon as it fell out of his mouth.

“ _Excuse me?"_ Genevieve muttered in a mortified whisper.

Blackwall sighed, “That’s not what I meant—”

“Oh, right. Then what did you mean, _Serah?_ ” She spoke “serah” as a Free Marcher would when speaking to someone of lower stature.

Weakly, Blackwall tried to defend himself; “I just meant that you want to go—”

“Your right, I do,” she growled low. “Because there are people who count on me, _we can’t all run away_ ,”

From the corner of his eye, Blackwall saw Bull shuffle uncomfortably and Cassandra smirk, pleased. Blackwall felt his heart rate increase. So there it was; a justifiable rage spilled over by stress. Cruel words, but accurate ones. Blackwall swallowed hard and grit his teeth. He would not risk provoking her further, maybe when all this was finished he could apologize, but for now they had pressing matters.

“Then I will go,” did not wait for an answer as he turned towards the sleeping dragon. Keeping low to the ground, he slowly crept to the base of the hill. Around him the stench of burning wood and smoldering flesh filled his nostrils. A druffalo’s corpse thick with flies was lying in the sun, rotting.

He took a glance behind him and saw Iron Bull following after him, slow as a lumbering ox, but quiet. Cassandra and Genevieve had taken cover behind a rock and were watching them. He could still see the sharp anger in her eyes.

Now under the shadow of the hill, Blackwall could not see the dragon but he could hear its monstrous breath. The dragon let out a great breathy snore—he and Bull froze, thinking it was about to wake, but it settled. _Now or never_ , Blackwall told himself. He screwed up his courage and climbed the slope.

Bull followed his lead, they would work their way down collecting everything they could. Especially seeds. Genevieve could plant the seeds and Maker willing, they would never have to repeat this folly ever again.

Carefully, Blackwall peered over the side of the hill to catch a glance of the sleeping dragon. Bull joined him, a look of wild excitement in his eyes. Blackwall took out a handkerchief and shook the seeds from a plant onto the cloth; he tied the cloth up by the corners and shoved it into his pocket. Then he and Bull started methodically pulling up plants.

Bull handed Blackwall a bundle of herbs and he shoved them into his belt. They weren’t sure what parts of the plant that the mages would want so they pulled up as many as they could with the roots still attached and the flowers undamaged.

Then, the unthinkable; The Iron Bull, sneezed.

Blackwall turned fast and shot the qunari a hard look. They were deathly still, listening for the dragon, trying to gauge if the beast had woken. Blackwall looked below and saw Cassandra and Genevieve, pale. He knew right then what had started them; he took hold of the ledge and pulled himself up. And there she was, eyes the color of amber, scales like beaten bronze. Beautiful, majestic, and he assumed—hungry.

“Maker’s balls,” he cursed and dropped as the dragon let out a roar so loud it made his ear drums pop. “Get down!” he yelled at Bull. The qunari didn’t have to be told twice, he slid down the hill on his ass, laughing as he went and shouting in Qunlat.

Blackwall saw the dragon’s claws hook over the edge of the rock, desperate to escape; he jumped, jarring his foot on the ground. Genevieve came running, but he motioned his hand for her to stop. “Go back!” he cried. “Get to cover!” Bull helped him up the dragon’s shadow passed above them as it took flight.

“Shit,” Blackwall grumbled. Bull helped him limp to the cover of the rock.

“What happened?” Cassandra demanded.

“The great Iron Bull sneezed,” Blackwall growled, his ankle tinged with pain. He feared he wouldn’t be able to fight.

Genevieve shot Bull a confused look; “What kind of person is _allergic_ to elfroot?” she exclaimed, her voice cracked.

Bull shook his head. “Oh come on, I can’t know that,” he stood up and watched the dragon flying, searching for them. “And that—isn’t she _magnificent?_ Don’t you want to fight that?”

“ _No!_ ” The three humans said in unison.

Cassandra peered over the rock and said; “We have to get out of here; perhaps we can make a run for the canyon?”

“I’m not sure Blackwall can run,” Genevieve said as she leaned over Blackwall and started unlacing his right boot. “Keep an eye on that dragon,” she told the others.

“Its fine, my lady, don’t worry about it,” he said and then winced as she pulled the boot off his foot.

“Shut up,” she told him. She didn’t have her saddle bags with her, so she tore cloth from her own tunic. “I don’t think it’s broken,” she noted. “But it’s swelling; sprained, maybe.” She took a healing potion from her belt and shoved it into his hand. “Drink,” she ordered and began using the cloth to bind his ankle.

Blackwall tipped the red potion back and drank all of it as he told. They made him feel jumpy sometimes, but right now all it did was make him feel sleepy. He wanted to be back in his hay loft away from all this madness.

“It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do,” Genevieve said. She slipped his boot back on and laced it. “What’s the dra—”

“It’s landing!” Cassandra and Bull ducked under the cover and a tongue of flame hit the other side of the rock. Heat waves fanned out around them and within seconds they were all drenched in sweat. They bunched together, trying to stay in cover as best they could.

Then the flame stopped and the dragon’s snake-like neck came around the right side. And Genevieve shouted “Scramble!”

They ducked, jumped, and rolled away in several directions. Blackwall’s gaze swept the battlefield in desperate search of the Inquisitor. He found her, helping Cassandra up. The dragon, realizing her quarry had gotten away, jumped up into the air and landed on another outcropping above them. She roared, filling the valley with the sound of wild fury.

Blackwall limped over to where Genevieve and Cassandra stood. “We have to get out of here,” he shouted. The women nodded, and Cassandra threw Blackwall’s arm over her shoulder to help him.

“Bull!” Genevieve called. “We’re getting out of here!” Bull had his great ax out, and he looked slightly disappointed when she told them they were retreating.

The dragon took to the air, and came swooping down on them again, cutting off their escape. The beast took a great big breath and at the same moment Genevieve waved her hand and a barrier came over the four of them, protecting them from the flame. They went for the safety of their rock as the barrier disappeared.

“We’re going to have to fight,” Cassandra yelled over another monstrous roar.

Genevieve wiped sweat from her brow. “Anyone ideas how?” She asked the seeker, it was well known Cassandra had slain some dragons in her past.

 “I was younger than you back then! It was luck!” Cassandra growled and peered over the edge of the rock to check on the dragon.

“You must have some idea how—”

“A distraction,” Blackwall moaned, interrupting them. His ankle was sending pain shooting up to his spine. “If we can keep it busy long enough someone can get under it, I’ve heard the belly is soft.”

There was a moment of silent thought, then; “Blackwall, since you can’t run, do you think you can get under it?” Genevieve asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “I can get its attention. Bull, Cassandra, keep attention off Blackwall.” She jumped up and ran from cover, Cassandra and Bull followed a second after.

Blackwall used his sword to push himself onto his feet and watched in mute horror as Genevieve called a rock from the Fade and sent it flying at the dragon’s head, slamming into its mouth, drawing blood. “Over here you overgrown salamander!” The dragon shook its head and turned towards Genevieve, baring teeth. It started for her and Blackwall took that as his cue.

He lumbered towards the beast, his foot dragging him down. It had been such a stupid decision, he should not have jumped. He hoped the numbing Genevieve’s health potions usually provided would kick in soon. To make it easier, he dropped his shield, behind him; Iron Bull picked it up and flung it at the dragon, taking attention off Genevieve. In return, she flung a barrier over the qunari.

Blackwall tripped and then forced himself back onto his feet. He saw Cassandra banging her sword on her shield and Genevieve cast an ice spell, locking one of the dragon’s legs in place, if only for a moment. The beast broke free and roared into the air. Blackwall dove under the monster and saw Genevieve raise her left hand, glowing green. She opened a rift above the dragon, slowing it.

With a great swing, Blackwall cut though the scale and tendons of the dragon’s front, left leg and the beast toppled to its side, screeching. He shoved his blade it’s the beast’s belly and drew up gutting it in a gush of hot blood.

The dragon screamed and thrashed in the throes of death. Blackwall was knocked off his feet and now he wasn’t sure if he was bleeding, or if the dragon was. He hit his head against the ground, felt the rumble of the dragon through the earth, and he felt sorry for the creature. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, they just wanted an herb.

His vision dimmed. He tried to reach for his sword, but couldn’t find it. He could hear Genevieve shouting, heard Cassandra respond. But he couldn’t understand what they were saying. He saw Iron Bull wreathed in shadow, felt him drag him away from the dragon, and then nothing else.

XXXX

Blackwall felt the warmth of a fire on his side, and someone on his other side tending him with gentle hands. It was his little bird, he knew just by the touch. He knew he was not supposed to call her that, but he was too tired to care. For a moment he let himself drift off to the feeling of her hands tending his wounds. He wondered if she had meant to be so cruel to him earlier or if it had been a slip meant only to temporally make her feel better.

Everything was blurry when he opened his eyes, but he knew her by her shadow. He felt her slip her hand under his head and lift it; she put a cup to his lips and drank.

“What happened?” he breathed when she took the cup away.

“Dragon knocked you down, you hit your head.” She told him. “Nothing serious, it got your ankle wrapped and elevated.” She was about to put her hand on his forehead, but she hesitated and sighed. “Are you hungry?”

“Famished,”

“Bull, help me sit him up,” Bull got up from his place by the fire and helped to lean Blackwall against a flat rock. Genevieve repositioned the saddle she was using to prop up his ankle and brought him another cup of warmed water and salt beef.

They had made camp in the dragon’s former nest by the water. It was dark but he could still see the bulk of the dragon, corpse now left to grow cold. Above, the night was clear but the moon was a sliver in the sky. He would have enjoyed the stars more if he didn’t feel so sluggish.

“We’ll be able to head home tomorrow,” Genevieve told them. “I’ve got as many plants as I can carry and I have seeds for planting.” She sighed and pulled her knees up to her chest. “I just hope we’re not too late,”

Cassandra leaned over and put her hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. “The commander is strong,” before they had left for the Hinterlands, she had fussed over Cullen until his fever was under control. He had regained consciousness and even tried to go back to work, but he was bedridden as were so many others.

Genevieve nodded and stood up. “I’m going to pick some spindleweed for a poultice. I’ll stay close, just going down to the water.” Blackwall watched her go, she might have returned with spindleweed a few moments later, but he was certain it was so she could drink a lyrium tonic. She put a poultice on her bruises and went to sleep before the others and without her usual tea.

Bull promised to wake Blackwall for a watch, but no one woke him. He slept until the sun was high up. In fact, they had all slept very late, the fight with the dragon had left them exhausted. They started packing a little before noon.

Before they took their leave, Blackwall hobbled over to the dragon’s corpse and put his hand upon its giant head. _Such a shame_ , he thought. He saw the beautiful scales and wondered it if would be desecration of the dead to take a few. But what’s another sin tacked onto the list, he decided, and plucked a few golden scales and tucked them into his pocket. They would be a fine memento, a reminder of the fierce splendor they had found here.

With dragon scales in his pocket, he and the others made the long trek back to Skyhold.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knew I wouldn't be able to write a Dragon Age Fanfic without a dragon fight. Hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	10. Chapter X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s Chapter 10! This one is my favorite, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to enc0342, who read this chapter twice.
> 
> Disclaimer: all characters, places etc. etc. etc. property of Bioware etc. etc. etc.

**Chapter X**

They came through the gates of Skyhold late in the night; exhausted, but successful. Genevieve immediately disappeared to the undercroft with a small army of mages and apothecary. Blackwall took one of the chairs by the hearth in the main hall. He propped his leg up on the table. He was on the verge of falling asleep when one of the keep’s maids came up to him.

“Milady Herald said to give you this,” the elven girl placed a hot cup of wine in his hands. “Medicine ser, for your leg. And I mixed it with wine because I wasn’t sure if you liked the taste,”

Blackwall smiled. “Thank you, my lady,” the elf smiled, blushed, and curtsied before rushing off. Even when dealing with everything, Genevieve still made sure he got something for his leg. He let the drink cool for a few minutes before sipping. The wine masked the flavor of healing potion and sleeping draft. He drained the cup and fell asleep in the chair.

He woke to the sound of voices; Genevieve was speaking to Josephine and Leliana. “I distilled it twice; it’s in its purest, most concentrated form. I’m confident it will work.” Blackwall opened his eyes and saw her holding up a flask full of purple liquid. She swirled it and looked at Leliana. “Any closer on the source?”

“Dorian confirmed it is of Teveninter make,” the spymaster answered. “But that is all we know, I went through the ranks and found no one missing, but I will keep looking. We will find the person who did this, Inquisitor.”

Genevieve nodded. “I know,” and then added, “I’m certain this is Venatori. Those who did this meant to destroy us from within, they have failed.”

“And they will try again, I am sure.” Leliana added.

“We will be ready next time,” Josephine said.

Blackwall rubbed his face, the women paid him little mind, they were too caught up in their conversation. It was late now and the hall was empty, save for them. With their conversation over Genevieve saw him stirring and went to him.

“How’s your ankle?” she asked softly.

Blackwall moved his foot and this time he didn’t feel any pain. “Better, my lady, thank you.” It was a relief. After a another week of riding he had cramped up, but the sleep brought on by the sleeping draught and the healing done by the health potion had helped.

She held up the potion and motioned it towards the upstairs rooms. “Do you think you could help me?”

He nodded and rose from his seat. Tentatively, he put some weight on his ankle and found it didn’t hurt too much. He followed Genevieve through a door and up to the guest quarters where they had put the Commander. Ser Marbrand, who had managed to fight off the sickness by himself, had been stationed at the door; the Templar greeted them with a bow.

“Your worship,” he said. The Templar’s usual neatly trimmed goatee was uncut and there were shadows under his eyes. He looked like many of the other soldiers on duty, exhausted from double—triple shifts, and worried about their comrades. “I am glad to see you returned safely. The Commander is sleeping,”

Genevieve held up her flask. “This ought to get him back on his feet, Ser.”

“Thank the Maker,” the knight opened the door and let them in. He stood in the doorframe trying his best to make it look like he wasn’t watching.

Blackwall had not seen Cullen since he had fallen ill. The Commander was pale and gaunt, but he was sleeping soundly. A cough rattled through his body, Genevieve went and sat on the Commander’s bedside.

Genevieve mopped his brow with a cloth she found on the nightstand. “Commander,” she put her hand on his cheek. “Cullen, wake up,” he opened his eyes, but just barely. “Blackwall help me sit him up.”

Mindful of his ankle, Blackwall leaned over and bed and shifted the commander up. Genevieve rearranged the pillows to prop the Commander against the headboard.

“I have something that will help, Cullen, can you drink?”

Through cracked lips Cullen smiled. “Inquisitor,” he rasped, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You’ve returned,”

“With something to help you,” she nodded at Blackwall. “Hold his head up,” Blackwall did as he was told. “Drink all of it,” she told the commander and tipped her flask to his lips. He drank it all in a few long swallows then coughed. Genevieve wiped his mouth with a cloth and offered him some water, he drank that greedily and she had to take it away so he could breathe.

Blackwall helped the commander back down against the pillows. Cullen laughed weakly. “I can’t remember that last time I was fussed over like a child,”

“I am not fussing over you,” Genevieve giggled, her cheeks turning a soft pink. Like she was embarrassed; _she used to turn that shade for me_ , Blackwall thought, something vile twisted in his heart then.

Cullen coughed and she dabbed his lips again. Blackwall backed away from the bed a hard knot settling in his gut. He felt like he was intruding on them. They made quite the pair, golden and chestnut, mage and Templar—the perfect symbol for the new era. Blackwall headed for the door when Genevieve offered to pray with the commander. He passed by Ser Marbrand, who closed the door and resumed his post.

She had told him that they were going to work this out, but time and stress was building up. He could be happy for them, right? And Cullen was closer in age anyway.

Before he knew it he was back in his barn. The fire in the pit had gone out so he searched around in the dark for flint. He flung a chair out of his way after stumbling over it. He wondered if this is what she felt like when she woke and found him gone. He was sick to his stomach and his heart felt tight in his chest like it couldn’t complete a full beat.

Finally he found some flint and got a fire going. He watched the flame spread and the heartache turned into rage. With a sudden need to lash out, he threw the flint towards the barn opening. Genevieve stepped aside just in time to dodge it.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall cursed, his rage turning back into heartache at the sight of her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,”

“It’s alright,” she said, and then paused, nervous. “Can we talk?”

“You should probably be in bed, my lady,” the words came out harsher then he’d intended.

“No, not yet.” She whispered, and then with more force; “I need to talk to you,”

Blackwall swallowed. “Aye, alright.”

They walked across the dark yard to the rooms above the blacksmith. The heat from the forge made the rooms almost uncomfortably hot. Blackwall took a seat at the table and Genevieve went to crack open a window to let some of the heat escape. She leaned against the wall, her hands clasped behind her back the way she did when she was thinking.

“I think,” she began, and he knew it was going to be _I think we should end this, I can’t do it_ , but instead she said; “I think I owe you an apology,” his eyes widened and she came over to the table. “I said something—in the ravine—that was cruel, and I—”

Blackwall could not help but laugh. “Only you would apologize for telling the truth, Genevieve Trevelyan.”

“But I—” Genevieve began, Blackwall shook his head.

“I don’t need an apology,” he said.

She nodded and went to sit across from him. She looked sad and tired, black heavy shadows had appeared under her eyes. Her hair was greasy and he could still see traces of dirt on her face from their trip. She hadn’t even bathed yet.

“You should go to bed, my lady,” he repeated.

“ _No,_ ” she exclaimed, forceful, like the Inquisitor would when judging a prisoner. “I’m so tired of this; I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning.”

Blackwall frowned. Now it was coming, now she was going to tell him she was done. It would hurt for a while, but he could pick himself and move on. He would see the Inquisition through and then move on, maybe go to Adamant and take their Joining. He braced himself for the inevitable, burning heartache.

“I want you to start from the beginning, tell me everything. About Thom Rainer, the Calliers,” She reached over and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were stained from elfroot, and hardened where she held her staff. But they were lovely hands with delicate fingers. He could remember each time he had kissed her palms, and the night he left when he kissed each fingertip in gentle reverence. Now he just let her rub a light circle of the top of his hand.

“I was a captain in the Orleasian army,” he began, his voice weak. This was not a story for a lady like Genevieve Trevelyan, a woman who saw the capacity for good in all men; she would hate him after this. “I was well-regarded, respected. But—” he voice cracked slightly. “It wasn’t enough. I betrayed the Empire, I assassinated a general and I did it all for gold,” Genevieve was silent, and she did not let go of his hand. It was a comfort. “The man was Vincent Callier and my employer was a Chevalier, Robert Chapuis. Ser Robert believed that Grand Duke Gaspard was the rightful ruler of Orlais and would eventually take the throne. He thought that by eliminating one of Celene’s loyal supporters, he might endear himself to the true emperor."

“I can’t say that his plan would have worked, I didn’t care. There was good coin offered, and I took it.” He looked down at the table, unable to look her in the eyes. “I took it like a common mercenary. By the time Ser Robert’s involvement was discovered, I was long gone. The Grand Duke disavowed the act publicly. Robert killed himself, put poison in his wine. Another victim of the Great Game.”

Genevieve tightened her grip on his hand. “You got your men to help you,” she muttered. “What did you tell them?”

Blackwall smoothed his hair back with his free hand. The shame bore heavy on his shoulders. “They didn’t know, I just told them it was an important mission, they trusted me without question. I thought Lord Callier would be traveling with soldiers, armed guards. My men had been told to eliminate everyone. They’d seen war; they thought they were defending their country. No one likes to think about that, but it’s names that carry power in this war, bloodlines, heirs. No matter how leaders pretend the Game is played, that’s how real war is waged.” He gained the courage to looked at her now and found her pale as a sheet.

“That isn’t how wars should be fought, there’s no need.” She whispered, hoarse. She was not naïve, he knew that, but she had a belief system: mercy and honor, truth, justice—not revenge. Genevieve was the kind of woman who wanted to bring the world out of darkness and strife, wanted to free it from injustice, even if that meant dragging all of Thedas kicking and screaming into the light. If anyone could do it, she would be the one. But even the Inquisitor can’t change war, can’t turn all the hearts of men.

“War is unfair, and the sky is blue,” Blackwall put his hand on top of hers. _Some men_ , he wanted to tell her, _you can change the hearts of some men, men like me_. “But you’re right; there was no need for what I did. It was senseless and cruel, and worse, I did it for money. I did it for the hope of a higher station—for power.” He hung his head and pressed his forehead to the back of her hand. “I am everything you hate about the Empire, about the Game.”

Finally telling her the whole story, telling her why he had done what he had done, made him realize once again how unworthy of her he was. They were supposed to get through it together, but she deserved more. She deserved a knight like Cullen, someone brave and true, someone who would spend the rest of his life bringing her happiness, not trying to repent. It had been a fool’s dream, thinking she might take him back.

“Will you tell me about the real Blackwall?” Genevieve asked softly, he released her hand then and put his head in his hands so that he might stare at the table. It hurt too much to look at her.

“We met in a tavern when I was on the run. I was nothing, a waste of life,” he answered. Even now he could remember the smell of cheap ale, could hear the drinking song the men at the bar had picked up. It made him feel ill. “He wanted to recruit me for the Wardens. We headed to Val Chavin for the Joining, but Blackwall insisted on making a stop along the way. He led me to a ruin from one of the previous Blights; it led into the Deep Roads. I was to go in alone, kill a darkspawn, and fill a vial with its blood. When I returned, I found the Warden ambushed by more of the creatures. He took a blow for me, he shouldn’t have died. _It should’ve been me_ ,”

It was a terrible memory; a good man who had offered him a chance at redemption, cut down to save his worthless hide. He could still see the spray of blood and the beady dead eyes of the hurlock who had killed the true Blackwall.

“You took me there, where you were ambushed, where we retrieved your badge,” Genevieve’s whispered, low and full of sorrow. “It wasn’t yours, was it?”

“No, it belonged to him,” he wanted to take back her hand, the kiss each finger in a desperate bid for forgiveness. But when he looked up at her, she had folded them into her lap where she could wring her skirt freely. He settled for looking into her eyes, Maker willing she would see the truth of it there. “I was going to tell you the truth when we went there. I wanted to explain why we couldn’t be together but you found Blackwall’s badge and I…I lost my nerve. You wanted me to be him. I wanted to be him. But to think that I could even replace that man—”

“It was heroic,” she said, more to herself, “Stepping between you and a darkspawn,”

“I wasn’t worthy,” he exclaimed, “just as I’m not worthy of you. And I know he would have wanted me to go on to Val Chavin, but I had no proof I had even been recruited. So Rainer died, and Blackwall lived.”

They were silent for a long time. He knew she was thinking, trying to process everything. He was not worthy of any sweetness, but he had to try, he needed her to know his heart.

“I need you to know,” Blackwall croaked, “You need to know that no matter what, _I love you._ I will never stop loving you. Even if you want me to love you from afar, I would lay down my life for your cause. Whatever you need me to do; I will do it, without question, without remorse.”

He saw the first tear slip down her cheek and wanted to hold her, but he was frozen. “Do you remember what I said in the dungeon?” Her voice was soft and sad.

How could he forget? She had reached out and touched him, a worthless prisoner in a filthy cell, and told him; “You said there was truth to what he had, that you believed there was good in me,”

She nodded, “and I still believe that. It’s hard, and it hurts, but I _believe_ it. What you did, what Thom Rainer did, was wrong, it was evil. But you have saved so many, you have put your life on the line for a cause no one is certain will succeed; you’ve stopped being _that man_. And you’ve became the man that _I love._ No matter how much it hurts, no matter how hard it gets.” She was on her feet, and took his hand and pulled him up to face her.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, but there was a soft smile on her lips. He saw everything then. Her eyes told him what words could not. He put his hands on either side of her face and kissed her.

She tasted of elfroot and mint and salty tears. It was just like he remembered. Sweet and warm and slightly inexperienced. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer. He let his hands drop from her face to her hips and falling into their old way, he gently pushed her against the nearest wall. It felt like he couldn’t get close enough to her, as if his kiss could not convey enough. He felt a tug from his stomach to his groin. If they were in the barn…he groaned against her neck as he thought of her ringed in hay, wrapped in a fur, naked and soft against him.

 _Easy,_ he told himself, _not so fast._ It took all his self-control to pull away then. She was flushed now, but she had stopped crying. He pressed his forehead against hers.

“You truly are Andraste’s chosen,” he whispered. “Only a woman blessed by the Maker himself could forgive an old man like me.”

“You’re not _that_ old.” She smirked playfully. They laughed together and met in another kiss, this one tamer than the last, but no less passionate. And when they drew apart, Genevieve said; “I don’t know where to go from here, I don’t know if I’m ready for…” she trailed and Blackwall took her face in his hands again.

“I don’t expect you to want me to share your bed, or even kiss you, I don’t expect anything. You set the pace; you let me know when you’re comfortable again.”

She smiled lightly and closed her eyes. She looked content, more peaceful then she had in weeks. He knew it had hung heavy on her and to be free of it…he couldn’t imagine how that felt.

“I have an idea,” she murmured against his palm. “I pursued you—”

“Relentlessly,” Blackwall said.

“Very awkwardly,” she corrected and got a chuckle out of him. “What if this time…”

“Are you asking me to court you, my lady?” Blackwall asked with just a hint of teasing. “Shall I write a letter to your father, asking permission? Or to Cullen?”

“Sweet Maker, no!” she yelped. “Let’s leave poor Cullen to healing first, and never involve my parents in anything. _Ever_.”

“A jest, my lady.” Blackwall smiled and pressed a kiss to her nose. “I shall endeavor to win your heart, my lady. Though I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Well, I like flowers.” She told him with a laugh.

“Then you shall have all the flowers in Thedas,” Blackwall hooked her arm and tucked her hand into his elbow. “But first I’ll escort you to your keep so that you can get some sleep.” The sun was coming up now, and she had not slept since the night before.

True to his word, he accompanied her to the keep stairs and she kissed his cheek. “Sweet dream, my lady,” he whispered as she went up the steps and he returned to his barn for his own rest.

He had never felt so light or had such sweet dreams as the ones he had that day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, did you know I write one-shots too? Check them out if you get the chance, thanks guys! Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Tumblr-blog-thingy: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


	11. Chapter XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember, this fan fiction is rated M for violence. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to enc0432, and to you, reader for your support. I want to take a moment to say how amazing it is that there are people from all over the world reading this story.That’s pretty awesome. I mean, to me it’s cool that some folks from my own country are enjoying Roses, but it’s almost mind blowing how there are people all over the world tolerating my self-fulfilling nonsense.
> 
> Seriously, thank you. 
> 
> Disclaimer: not going to bother putting a disclaimer down anymore, you guys get the point.

**Chapter XI**

Blackwall raised his blade to parry a red Templar; he used his shield to put the man off balance, and then gave him a hard swift kick in the stomach sending him to the ground. Blackwall jammed his sword into the Templar’s neck and twisted, finishing him quickly before turning to find his next foe. It would be one of the tower shield wielder making slow headway towards Genevieve and Sera’s position at the top of the hill. An easy target so long as he remained distracted.  

He saw Genevieve take notice as he made his way towards the tower shield. She flung a spell at the Templar to keep his attention on her. Blackwall crept up behind the man and drove his sword into his back. He freed his blade and let the Templar drop like a stone.

“Dorian!” Genevieve shouted, voice panicked. A chain of lightning shot from her staff, striking the two Templars heading for him, paralyzing them both and giving Dorian the chance to cast a terror curse one. The curse and sent the unlucky bastard fleeing to Blackwall’s sword. And the other fell to one of Sera’s arrows. It left them victorious, but exhausted.

Blackwall cleaned his blade on a Templar’s skirt. He had battled countless red Templars, but to this day the grotesqueness of their mutated forms still struck a note of primal fear in him. He turned away from the creature in hopes of forgetting its lifeless red eyes.

“Everyone alright?” Genevieve asked, slightly out of breath.

“In retrospect, I should have stayed on the hill, I could have hidden behind you,” Dorian chuckled. His hair was a little out of order, but he looked unharmed.

“Shite Templar bastards,” Sera grumbled as she went around collecting her arrows. The other day she’d received a good knock to the head; her headache had put her in a foul mood and lucky for her companions she directed at every red Templar she saw.

“Good to know you’re okay, Sera.” Dorian laughed again.

They had been in the Emerald Graves for six days now clearing out the red Templars and disrupting their lyrium routes. And now it was finally done; they had taken out the freemen and the Templar camps. All that remained was to inform the militia. They would make their way home then, just in time for the Inquisitor’s Name-Day Extravaganza. Naturally, Genevieve didn’t know a thing about it. Josephine had threatened each member of the inner circle into total silence on the matter. By the time Genevieve found out, it would be too late to stop it.

Blackwall disliked keeping the secret from her, but Josephine had made the most convincing of arguments. _Although the plague is over Serah Blackwall, you must know how much the Inquisition is in need of a morale booster; a grand tourney, with food, drink, and celebration would be just the thing._ Her words echoed in his head, and no matter how much he wanted to tell Genevieve, he kept quiet. Because it _would_ boost morale and it _would_ bring some joy to those who had suffered so much loss since the illness.

“So, Inquisitor,” Dorian began as they found a shady hilltop to make camp for the night. “You’re turning what— _thirty_ in two weeks?”

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Twenty-nine, Dorian, you know that.”

“I remember when I turned twenty-eight; it felt a whole lot like being twenty-eight.” Dorian smirked. The mage threw his saddle blanket over a rock and sat down, perfectly content to let the others do any work.

Blackwall would never understand how anyone could stand the magister, or for that matter, how Genevieve could possibly be related to him. But the Inquisitor seemed to like him; she even respected him. He supposed it was the camaraderie of intellectual types coupled with the way they mercilessly teased each other. The fact that they were both mages cemented their friendship.

“So,” Dorian continued, languid as a cat. “Any gifts you want in particular? Something encrusted in jewels? Hemmed with lace? Or would you prefer a certain someone with a rather hairy chest and dislike for soap? I’ll even put a bow around him if you like.”

Blackwall cleared his throat and saw Genevieve turn bright pink up to her ears. Sera burst into that maniac laugh of hers. Dorian, on the other hand, had a most pleased smirk on his face.

“Mage,” Blackwall growled, this only made Sera laugh harder. He had to wonder how long Dorian had been sitting on this joke—days maybe—waiting for the perfect moment to embarrass the Inquisitor into muted horror.

In a sing-song-voice the elf said; “I know what you two did, up in the loft.”

“And we will not talk about it,” Blackwall threatened with a shaking fist. Genevieve just remained silent turning pinker and pinker with each passing second.

“Getting hay in your nooks...crannies.”

“Sera,” Genevieve managed to choke out. “That’s enough,”

“Yeah, yeah alright,” Sera muttered. “Just wanted to get your knickers in a twist. Though I supposed you’re right, I should be letting beardy do that.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes in defeat and gathered up their water skins. Blackwall pointed at Dorian; “At least get a fire started so we can have something warm to eat.” And he followed after the Inquisitor. He could hear Sera laughing as they disappeared into the woods.

Blackwall followed Genevieve to a nearby stream. She had dropped the skins and her staff on the bank and was working on getting her boots off. She jumped around on one foot for a while and would have fallen if Blackwall hadn’t have caught her by the elbow. They both laughed and she pulled her boot off with a swift movement.

“Sorry about them,” she muttered, she was leaning into his chest now, taking off her socks. “They like to tease, but I think they’re happy for us,”

“Aye,” Blackwall agreed and set her back onto her feet.

“Oh Maker, this place is gorgeous.” She stretched and dipped her feet into the stream.

“Isn’t that cold?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Feels good; think I tweaked my foot in that last fight.” She dipped her hands into the water and washed the dust from her face.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, she was always worried about everyone else, but never herself.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she was watching a little brown nug slowly coming towards the stream. “Trying not to think about hay, but I’m fine,” then she raised her hand and bolt of lightning struck the nug and it fell over, dead in an instant. “I found dinner,” she chuckled.

Blackwall went over to pick the little beastie up. There was a bit of burnt hair where the bolt had struck it, but it was in good condition. And lying under it, almost crushed, was a patch of yellow flowers. He picked one it and presented it to Genevieve. She rewarded him with a wide smile; “Yellow moonbeam,” she told him.

“It’s a pretty one,” Blackwall agreed as she tucked the flower into the fold of the book hanging off her belt. As he laid the nug out on the grass and started cleaning it for supper she went to the bag she’d left on the bank and pulled out a lyrium tonic.

“Been a long time since I’ve had nug roasted over an open fire,” Blackwall said, trying to keep himself from gawking as she sipped at her potion. It was difficult to think of her as an addict, even though she insisted that “addiction” wasn’t exactly the right word for it.

“I keep mint and thyme in my bag, if you want to spice it a little.” She finished her tonic and picked up their water skins and started filling them, one at a time. “Belinda always bastes it in honey; I never even liked nug until I tasted hers,”

Blackwall laughed, with the potion finished it was easier to not think about it. “That woman has a way with food; I’ll give you that,” of everything he had with her, he liked this best of all. That they could just sit and speak of food and other simple things. It had been what he missed most from before. Then when they lapsed into comfortable silence, she started singing.

Genevieve filled the last of their skins and then sat on a rock near Blackwall where she could keep her feet in the cool water. The sun was setting now, the nights in the Graves had been mild, but Blackwall could feel a light breeze coming in from the north and he wondered if they would need to erect tents to keep the chill off.

With the nug cleaned and skinned, Blackwall wiped his knife clean and put it back in his belt. Genevieve started getting her boots on, singing. As she pulled up her socks she stopped, frozen, eyes wide like a deer listening for danger.

“My lady..?” Blackwall paused, confused. He saw the color drain from her face, her pupils grew wide. Was the lyrium doing something to her? He rose to go to her when his own battle instincts made the hair on the back of his neck stand. Too little, too late.

“Templars!” she jumped up, skin pale and green like she was about to be sick. No sooner had the words left her mouth when an archer came out of the bushes across the stream and fired. The arrow took Blackwall in the shoulder, just above his plate mail. He dropped the nug, and reached up to draw his sword when another Templar came barreling at Genevieve and tackled her to the ground, another was around behind him, grabbed his arm, and wrenched it behind his back almost breaking it.

The Templars were laughing, _how long have they been watching, and we had no idea?_

“Wait till the others see this!” The archer laughed, arrow still nocked and drawn on Blackwall. These men were not as disfigured as many others; new recruits, easily dealt with if they hadn’t had the element of surprise.

“Let her go!” Blackwall roared, trying to break free from the one who had his arm. The Templar grabbed the arrow in Blackwall’s shoulder and gave it a twist, making him cry out. How could they have missed a patrol? How could he have let his guard down?

“If you let me go,” Genevieve didn’t sound as desperate as she looked, but there was a tinge of fear in her eyes. “The Inquisition can help you; you don’t have to be a lyrium slave—”

“Mages shouldn’t talk,” the Templar on top of her shouted and smacked her with a lobster steeled hand. He laughed when she went silent and drew a mocking, gentle finger along her cheek. “When you’re Tranquil, you’ll do whatever I say,” to the Templar’s surprise, she managed to free her left hand, he grabbed it, bent the fingers back, and Blackwall heard the crunch of broken fingers. To her credit, she did not scream, but he thought she might break her teeth with the force she grit them with.

Then she whistled. Blackwall knew what she was doing. He readied himself for the inevitable pain of throwing the Templar over his back. Then he would go for the one on top of her—drowning him would be easiest.

“I don’t need magic to kill you,” Genevieve growled, her left hand had been a feint. She had used the distractions to pull her dagger. With her right hand held firmly around her knife, she shoved it under the ribbed plate of the Templar’s armor and into his kidney. Blackwall remembered when he taught her that, they had faced ridicule for weeks after because he had climbed on top of her to show her exactly where to put a knife, but he was so glad in the moment that they had endured the humiliation of it. The Templar dropped like a stone, and when she freed the blade he bleed out like a stuck pig.

Blackwall made his move and felt the arrow go deeper, but he broke from the Templar’s grasp and flung him hard onto the ground, knocking the wind out of him. With Genevieve’s assailant down, that left the archer. Blackwall readied to charge him. He knew he would take at least another arrow on his way across the stream, maybe another when he tackled him. But before he could draw his dagger an ear splitting cry broke through the gathering dark. 

Fiend came rushing to them, teeth bared. The Templar archer only had a moment to react; he fired at the dracolisk and missed. The beast was on him, hungry for blood. Sera and Dorian came running too, weapons at the ready.

The one Blackwall had thrown down was crawling towards the river, hoping to make an escape. Blackwall wasn’t going to have it. He ran at him and pressed his knee into the Templar’s back and shoved his helmed head into the icy water. By the Maker, Blackwall wanted blood.

“You think threatening women is funny, do you?” Blackwall bellowed as he lifted the man’s head out of the water for a moment. “How about I give you some tranquility,” and he thrust his head back into the water, brought his knee up a little higher and popped his neck free from his spin. The trashing stopped then and Blackwall jumped up, wrenched the arrow out of his shoulder and gave them Templar corpse a kick for good measure. He wasn’t done though, he wanted more blood—more Templar’s to kill. But he settled for another kick to the corpse, and a third. By the fourth and fifth, he might have broken the Templar’s ribs, not that he felt it.

“Enough, Blackwall,” the Inquisitor snapped. “He’s dead, let him be.” That brought him out of his bloodlust. He turned, anger drained only for worry to replace it.

Sera and Dorian had freed Genevieve; she had tears in the corner of her eyes and was holding her left hand close to her chest. Blackwall turned to her and brought her into his arms, mindful of her broken hand. He had to hold her, if only for a moment.

“Are you alright?” he murmured into her hair. She’d take worse injuries without a shedding a single tear, but he would think no less of her if she cried now.

“You’re bleeding,” she muttered. He couldn’t help but chuckle, he held her at arm’s length to examine her. A fist shaped bruise was appearing on her cheek already and aside from her hand she didn’t look to bad. “My hand hurts,”

“Yeah,” he whispered running a gentle finger over her cheek to wipe tears away. “Let’s get to camp and get patched up.”

Sera was examining what remained of the Templar archer. “What happened?” she asked, disgusted at the sight. “This one’s missing bits,” she looked at the dracolisk; the beast’s muzzle was covered in blood.

“He did good,” Blackwall jumped to the beast’s defense. Despite the pain, he picked up the nug he had dropped and tossed it at the dracolisk. Fiend caught it happily. “You earned it, you great ugly lizard.”

They got back to camp and Blackwall sat down next to Genevieve so that Dorian could tend their wounds. They both drank two health potions each. Dorian wrapped some bandages around Blackwall’s shoulder and under his arm but he couldn’t really do anything more than that, they would need to make it to the main camp for a real healer. Genevieve took something for her pain and went to sleep immediately afterward.

Blackwall was going to ask if she wanted anything to eat a few hours later, but Dorian shook his head and said; “Taking a smite isn’t fun, she won’t have the stomach to eat anything, best to leave her alone.” Then with Dorian’s help, Blackwall got a tent over her.

After explaining the ambush to Dorian and Sera, Blackwall settled in for a long and uncomfortable night. The next day didn’t improve much; if Genevieve felt better she didn’t show it. They were desperate for a healer so they pushed on as hard as they dared and made it back to the forward camp in the middle of the night on their ninth day in the Graves. The healer set Genevieve’s hand and healed all the muscle and bone damage done to Blackwall’s shoulder and they were off for home the very next day. Genevieve had wanted to meet with the militia herself, but instead sent a bird so that they could get home.

XXXX

When they came into the valley, Skyhold looming over them, Genevieve noticed the stands first. They were simple, undecorated wooden bleachers with six rows of seating, one set on each side of a freshly tilled bit of land where a tilt was currently being constructed.

She stopped and turned her dracolisk towards the lists, Blackwall followed her while Dorian and Sera continued on. The refugee camps had been pushed back along the river, and there was a flurry of activity. With the fever in the camps under control the people were getting back to their daily business and preparing for the Inquisitor’s Name-Day.

“They’re building a tiltyard,” the Inquisitor grumbled when Blackwall caught up. Her mood had significantly fouled since they left the Emerald Graves. He couldn’t blame her.

“So it would seem,” Blackwall said.

She sighed. “Josephine has her name written all over this,” then she turned Fiend and said; “Let’s get home; I want a long hot bath and a very large bottle of wine.”

“Does your hand pain you, my lady?” Blackwall asked over the sound of his gelding’s hooves on the stone bridge.

“Well, I won’t be closing any rifts for a while…or holding my staff properly,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t complain. How about your shoulder?”

“The healer did excellent work,” he assured her. In fact he hadn’t felt so much as a twinge since they left the Graves.

“Good,” They entered the gates and put up their horses. The yard was full of bustle now that the plague was over. It even felt brighter. The keep was beginning its healing process, the plague would leave scars, but it hadn’t brought them down.

Blackwall was about to head to the barn when Genevieve stopped him. “When they see this hand, they’ll want to hear your side of the story. Might as well come to the war room,”

Together they entered the main hall; Dorian was already telling Varric, Cassandra, and anyone who had stopped to listen, about their adventure. Cassandra peeled off from the group when she saw Genevieve.

“Inquisitor!” she cried, spying her broken hand. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, little worse for wear, but I’ll be fine. Josephine and the others?” she made for the door and marched through Josephine’s empty office, Blackwall on her heels.

“Await you in the war room,” Cassandra said, hustling after them. Dorian and Sera followed them, slow and giggly like little siblings about to see their mother lecture their older siblings.

Blackwall pushed the war room open and let everyone in, he shut it firmly behind him and took a spot leaning against the wall. The others gathered around the war table. The witch lady, Morrigan took a position at Genevieve’s right, much to Cassandra’s chagrin. Nothing was said or done about it, so Cassandra took her left hand side.

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, shocked when he saw Genevieve’s broken hand. It was rare for her to return to Skyhold with such a serious injury. Not that it didn’t happen; but as a mage she kept away from the rougher fighting.

“We disrupted Samson’s lyrium routes,” Genevieve offered, “missed a patrol, Blackwall and I were ambushed,”

“ _How?_ ” Cassandra shot an angry glare at Blackwall.

 _At least she isn’t ignoring me anymore_ , Blackwall thought. Though the Seeker’s ire wasn’t really an improvement.

“It was a stupid mistake,” the Inquisitor explained, “If Blackwall hadn’t been with me they could have just snatched me up.”

“Fiend did most of the work,” Sera chirped. “Ate a Templar’s heart out, he did.” She was exaggerating, but no one bothered to correct her.

Genevieve then, in detail explained their trip to the Graves and when it was time to explain the ambush, she ushered Blackwall over to her side. After all was said and done, Genevieve promised them a written report then told the others they were excused and that she wanted to speak to her advisors alone.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Sera poked Blackwall with her elbow and smirked; “Inquisitorial meltdown, in three…two…” and just as Genevieve’s voice rose in a vexed; “ _A what?_ ” Sera said; “one,” then skipped off.

Blackwall did not stick around to hear any more. He wanted to get some sleep in his own bed.

XXXX

When he woke in the morning, he came down from the loft to find Varric and Cole sitting around a freshly made fire. Varric was eating breakfast and Cole had his knees up to his chest, hat covering his face.

“Morning, Hero,” the dwarf greeted and pointed a hand at a tray of food. “I brought bread and sausage,”

“Thank you,” Blackwall yawned and sat down. “To what do I owe the visit?” It was odd for the dwarf to be up so early, Blackwall was immediately suspicious. But he didn’t say anything about it and choose instead to build a sandwich out of sausage.

“I came see if you were feeling up to a bit of training today,” Varric folded his hands across his chest.

Baffled, Blackwall said; “Training? Have you and the boy taken a sudden interest in the sword?”

“What?” the dwarf laughed. “No; you Hero, are you ready to train for the tourney?”

“I am not going to be in the tourney,” he grumbled.

Varric laughed. “Are you kidding? You told me yourself that you used to be in them—”

“I was in two, as far as I know that doesn’t make me an expert.”

“So what? You should do it! Imagine it, Hero. You ridding in on your charger in armor shined up just for the occasion, you hand a pretty flower to your pretty Inquisitor and take to the lists in her name. And when you win she presents you with a reward and a kiss,” he chuckled impishly. “And maybe even more,”

Blackwall rolled his eyes. “I haven’t been in a joust in twenty years. Even if I did ride, I’d have no chance of winning,”

“Well that’s not true, you have as good a chance as everyone else. There aren’t any big names coming to this shindig, mostly lords and ladies. No true professionals.”

“Right, _just_ lords and ladies.” He groaned. Cole repeated “lords and ladies,” and then wondered aloud if there would be wonderful hats like there had been at Halamshiral.

“Oh come on Hero, you gotta ride,”

“ _I do not._ ”

“But I got you a nice new set of armor and charger and everything! I even had the training yard set up in the valley.”

“You did what?” Blackwall nearly spat out his breakfast. “You bought me _armor and a horse_? Are you mad?”

“I also bet Dorian twenty sovereigns you’d win. I sunk a lot of money into this, Hero.” The dwarf explained.

Blackwall momentarily wondered how much money Varric had that would allow him to simply throw it around so easily. Horses trained for jousting did not come cheap, and neither did the armor, or the livery, or any part of it. That was why it was left to the wealthy, the well-connected, and the professionals. Once upon a time, Blackwall had been well off enough to enter a joust, he had not won, which led him to enter the melee, which he won with the help of an aging Chevalier.

“I am not interested,”

“Hey, Kid, tell him what you told me yesterday,”

Cole looked up at Blackwall and Varric smirked. “ _Shining, sordid, but stalwart_. He’s not a knight, but he could be, he’s _my_ knight—”

“Okay, Kid.” Varric stopped him and fixed Blackwall with a clever look. “It gets a…a little more personal from there.”

“She was dreaming in the Fade,” Cole explained as if Blackwall wouldn’t know. “She likes you in armor—you look dashing, she thinks. Do you think I could look dashing?”

Speechless, Blackwall put down his breakfast. Varric, with a smirk that claimed victory, said; “You’ve got a whole week to practice,”

Frustrated and now certain he didn’t have a choice, Blackwall stood up. “I have to finish up the Inquisitor’s Name-Day gift, and then you can show me this charger of yours.”

 _I can’t be so bad_ ; he thought to himself, _she does think you’re dashing after all._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had trepidation about Genevieve’s age from the very beginning; however, I can’t help but feel that she is in her late twenties. In my original draft of this story, she was older, but the more I changed and wrote the more I realized how much younger she is that Blackwall. I finally decided that it was dishonest to the character if I made her older than I feel she is. Sorry if it weirds you out a little. Enc0432 assuaged some of my fears with a very blunt; “if that’s how you feel. And besides, she’s a grown-ass woman,” so I leave you with that bit of wisdom.


	12. Chapter XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not gonna bother making an excuse for this one. This is 100% fantasy fulfilment on my part. And I would like to apologize for any innate cheesiness…actually, no. I’m not sorry.
> 
> It’s pretty much all wish-fulfilment from here on out. 
> 
> Thanks to enc0342, my lovely proof reader and to you readers!

**Chapter XII**

“What kind of flower is this?” Blackwall asked, as he examined the caparison of his new horse. It was a field of green dotted with orange flowers—garish looking, if you asked him. He wasn’t certain what it was that Varric had been thinking, but he couldn’t argue. It had been done; there was no going back now.

Cole was sitting on the practice tilt, idly swinging his legs. “Poppies,” he answered cheerfully. “Everyone gives her roses, but her favorite is poppies, they grew under her window when she was little, before she escaped.”

“Right,” Blackwall muttered, he knew Genevieve liked poppies, but he could hardly tell that was what the pattern was supposed to be. His heraldry was orange poppies on a field of green; he supposed there were worse choices. Even the horse’s chanfron had an orange poppy painted in the center. It matched his shield perfectly.

The shield was for show, of course. He would give it to his groom—Cole, apparently—in exchange for a lance. The Field Marshall, an old Chevalier who had pledged himself to the Inquisition, had decided to follow the jousting rules of the Free Marches because the Inquisitor would be more familiar with them. That meant that blows had to be struck against the shoulder and not shield. Blackwall was glad of it; he preferred the Free Marcher rules to the Orlesian ones anyway.

The horse itself was a dun stallion. Handsome and proud, it was the kind of horse Blackwall would have ridden in his youth. The armor was freshly crafted steel with a high neck guard and a helm with a thick visor. Blackwall supplied a heavily padded tunic, one he often wore on missions, and a coat of boiled leather for a little extra padding. The steel fit snuggly, but it was good quality. The plate that went over his left shoulder came with extra padding and an orange poppy marked the spot where his opponent would hit him.

“It’s good armor, Varric,” Blackwall said, before putting on his helm.

The dwarf nodded in acknowledgement and chuckled as Blackwall tried to mount. It had been long time since Blackwall had mounted a horse in armor as bulky as this. Even his regular battle armor wasn’t so thick and heavy. But after a few tries, Blackwall finally got up and situated himself onto the practice tiltyard.

Cole came forward with a solid wooden lance and, struggling, held it up to Blackwall. Blackwall took it with ease, falling into the training he’d undergone so many years ago. At the end of the tilt a wooden shield had been erected on a rotating arm. Someone, Sera, he assumed, had drawn a crude Corypheus in the center. Blackwall spurred his horse, and much to his surprise and delight, the beast shot forward and three seconds later, his lance shattered against the fake foe.

The force of the blow shook him from hand to foot, drove an ache into his wounded shoulder, jarred his teeth, and brought a fire into his belly. It felt good, better then he imagined it would.

Now, pumped full of adrenaline, Blackwall turned back to his position, threw down the broken lance and called for another. Cole seemed to share his excitement and brought him another as quickly as he could. _If the boy thinks this is exciting, he should see a real joust_ , Blackwall smiled under his helm.

It was already getting hot inside the armor, but as he brought another lance against the dummy, this time not shattering the lance, but hitting dead center for a good three points, he didn’t care. For the first time in a long time he was having fun, and not the kind of fun that came from too much drink and company.

For three hours he practiced against the dummy, and then for another two he tried to fit his lance through a small ring. The ring was more about aiming and proper form than anything else; by the end of the day he was sore and tired and had worked up an appetite. He left his armor and horse in Varric’s care and made his way to the barn.

He was pleasantly surprised to find Genevieve in his barn. She wore a plain brown tunic and black, patchy leggings. She had dirt stains on her knees and he wondered if she had spent the afternoon working in the garden. Someone had wrapped her hand and fingers, set them with a brace, and gave her a sling. Color had come back to her face, the shadows under her eyes had receded, and she even wore a very small smile. He was overjoyed to see her looking better.

“Good evening, my lady,” Blackwall smiled. He kept his distance; he smelled of sweat and steel and needed to bathe. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Oh, much,” she answered.“And you?”

“Never better.”

“So I heard you’ve decided to ride in the tourney,” she hopped up onto his workbench; her feet dangled off the edge. “You even have a patron,”

“Well he bought the horse and armor, I felt like I didn’t really have a choice,” he explained, and that was the partial truth—the other half was the hope of impressing her, but she didn’t need to know that. “I trained when I was younger, and even if I don’t win I suppose it’s nice to be in a tournament again. Perhaps I’ll even try the melee.”

Smirking, Genevieve crossed her legs and said; “So how long did you know there was going to be a tournament in my honor?”

Well caught, he answered; “I was going to let you in on the secret before we left for the Graves but Lady Montilyet made a very convincing argument about morale.”

She sighed, “You too, huh? If that woman argued with swords there would be no stopping the Inquisition.”

Blackwall laughed at the idea. “Clean this whole war up in about a week.”

“And finish Corypheus in two,” Genevieve added. She sighed dreamily. “And then I’d be free; no more paper work, no more war meetings. I could spend the whole day in the garden or reading a book—or with you,” she added softly. “I would have loved to watch you practice today,” she held out her right hand despite the stink on him.

He took it, kissed her knuckles, and helped her off the work bench. “You could join us tomorrow; I intend to practice all week, my lady,”

“Tomorrow, then,” she leaned up on her tip-toes and kissed his cheek. “But first thing in the morning is an Inner Circle breakfast meeting; Josephine thinks it’s best if we discuss the tournament and the multitude of guests.”

“I’ll be there,” Blackwall promised.

Genevieve’s nose scrunched up a little as she said; “You’ll take a bath first right?”

“Right now, my lady,” he laughed.

“Good,” she cooed, then jumped up on her tip-toes again and kissed his lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. “At the stream, I never said thank you.” Her lips lingered for a moment before she pulled away. If not for his smell, he would have put his arms around her and given her a very proper, very manly kiss. At least it wasn’t so terrible to watch her walk away.

“And there she goes,” he muttered to himself.

XXXX

Breakfast with the Inner Circle was usually a loud affair. Inevitably there was an argument, (usually caused by Vivienne, continued by another, and finished by Genevieve), Bull would talk loudly over the argument, and Sera would probably fling something.

Blackwall took a seat between Sera and Varric, across from Genevieve. He found it odd that it was Dorian and Cole who sat on either side of her, and not Cassandra. In fact, Cassandra had taken a seat at the end of the table near Bull. The Seeker looked frigid (more so than usual), and Blackwall could tell that that Genevieve was doing her damnedest not to meet eyes with her.

“Good morning,” the Inquisitor smiled and she spooned honey onto her toast.

“Morning,” Blackwall picked up a plate of freshly made bacon, threw a few slices onto his plate and then offered it to Genevieve. He wanted to ask her what had happened between her and the seeker, but he dropped it. It was best not to cause a scene.

“Thank you,” she took a couple of slices and piled them onto her honeyed toast. “I know there are boiled eggs around here, who has them?” she called over the din. If anything these breakfasts had taught her how to speak loud and clear. They came to her from Bull’s side of the table, the bowl half empty now.

Blackwall helped himself to an egg, peeled away the brown shell and took a bite. It had been a long time since the whole inner circle had gotten together to eat. The advisors were the last to arrive, but there was no talk of business until everyone had gotten something to break their fast.

Josephine tried twice, and in vain to get everyone’s attention. Giggling, Genevieve stood up and whistled the same loud whistle she had trained her mounts to recognize. This quieted her rowdy companions and she turned to Josephine.

Most of the lecture was to remind everyone to act as courteous as possible. She looked specifically at Bull when she said; “There will be no bar fights, or using the war table to impress…people.” Then she looked at Sera, “no pranks, tricks, or shenanigans.” When all the talk of what was not allowed was through, talk of the actual tourney began.

“We’re still not sure if it’s fair to let Varric and Sera compete in the archery tournament,” Cullen sighed.

“Don’t worry about me,” Varric said. “I won’t be entering.”

“Bullshite!” Sere cried. “If beardy gets to be in the joust than I should be in the archery competition!”

“I want to be in the melee!” Bull bellowed. Blackwall decided he would not be in the melee.

“But we have people coming from all over Thedas, we must leave some glory for them,”

“Bugger them, and bugger glory,” Sera grumbled. “I just want to show those fancy pants that I’m a better shot.”

“I think we should let them compete,” Genevieve said. “Sera’s not wrong, Blackwall is riding in the joust, and I don’t think it’s a bad idea to show everyone the strength of the Inquisition.”

“Or it may hurt relations when Lord so-an-so’s favorite Chevalier is beaten in the melee by a qunari,” Josephine explained.

“He could be impressed instead,” Cullen muttered, he hated those stupid peacocks just as much as everyone else.

“I am very impressive,” Bull laughed.

Looking only slightly defeated, Josephine yielded. Genevieve smiled; “And I think we need to have a little carnival for the children, and a cheese roll,”

“Of course Inquisitor,” Josephine nodded. “Perhaps in the afternoon on the first day, just after the melee? And we have a small winner’s purse set aside of each competition, but I think we should have another reward, something for you to present.”

“A kiss!” Varric shouted out, laughing.

“I was thinking more of a sword,” Genevieve muttered, shooting the dwarf a harsh look. “Harritt does excellent work, a sword for the winner of the joust; a shield for the melee winner; maybe a bow for the archery winner.”

“I’ll speak to Harritt,” Cullen said and then excused himself from the table.

“Excellent,” Genevieve pushed away from the table. Blackwall followed suit. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an engagement.” She came around the table and Blackwall offered her his arm.

Blackwall decided to forgo his armor and decorations for his horse. He helped Genevieve onto her favorite Anderfel charger, not because she needed it, but because he wanted to. They rode through the gate together, Cole and Varric behind them.

“You look lovely today, my lady,” Blackwall said. Today she was wearing a simple dress of blue and a white shawl. She wore her favorite belt, the one with all the pouches for her various herbs and the book latched to the left side.

“Thank you,” She smiled.

As they came down into the valley she was recognized almost instantly. People flocked to stand on the side of the road to watch, wave, and cheer her. Blackwall could see a light blush come to her cheeks as the people shouted praise. She had saved their lives—all of them—and yet she still managed to bow her head and turn pink up to her ears with embarrassment. _Demure and pretty and valorous_ , he thought. There was tightening in his groin and stomach, she had such an effect on him and all she was doing was sitting a horse and greeting the refugees.

The people cried for her to touch them, to bless them, to press a kiss to their children’s heads. They wanted her to touch them with her left hand, the one they thought had been touched by the Maker, but it was still in a sling, so she reached forth with her right hand to pat the heads of babies and old women, to shake the hands, she even let them press sloppy kisses to her knuckles. _Anything to ease their suffering_ , she had told him one night from the battlements, as they watch the camp come alive with cook fires.

But there could be danger in the crowds and after a few moments, Blackwall and Varric were forced to break it up so that they could get to the practice yard. Some of the soldiers had noticed the sudden crowds and came to stand guard without a word having to be said. To everyone in the Valley and keep, the Inquisitor’s life was the most important in all of Thedas, and no matter how much she would argue against it every man and woman in the whole valley would lay down their lives to see her safe.

They came the to the practice list and dismounted. Blackwall took Genevieve’s horse and tied it up away from the yard where it could graze on the sparse grass with the other beasts. A few benches had been set around the practice area and Genevieve took a place with Varric. Cole once again wanted to be Blackwall’s groom.

Blackwall had taken up his first lance and was about to charge when Genevieve rose and shouted; “the children are more than welcome to sit with me, Serah,” a guardsmen nodded and let a pack of children who had not dispersed when they were told, into the practice yard. They came running to her side with much giggling and shouting. This pleased the children more than anything and they came at her in a rush of filthy hands and faces.

Blackwall could not help but smile as Varric jumped up and gave his spot to a little boy. Genevieve pulled the smallest and youngest looking onto her lap and those who hadn’t gotten a spot on the bench gathered around her feet. A little girl clutched to the hem of the Inquisitor’s skirts. It was a sight that sent a terrible longing through his chest. The little boy that sat on her lap had black hair and grey eyes and Blackwall couldn’t help but wonder if _their_ boy would look like that, or if he would have brown hair like his mother?

The tug on his heart turned into an ache when he thought they might never have that. No matter how strong keep they had or the army they surrounded themselves with there was still a chance that he could die—that _she could die_. It broke his heart thinking she might not get to hold their little on in her arms, or the fear that, _Marker forbid_ , he might outlive her.

He couldn’t handle that, it hurt too much to think about. So he took up his lance and spurred his horse. In a fury of dirt and horseflesh he was across the tiltyard in seconds, his lance hit dead center on the training dummy, and though the lance did not splinter he heard the sound of the wood cracking.

The children flew into a fury of cheers, Genevieve among them. Knowing that she was there, cheering him on even against a wood and straw dummy, felt better than anything in the world.

He practiced until noon. Some of the children had grown bored and left to play or were called back by their parents; those who had stuck it out were rewarded. Genevieve gave each remaining child a peppermint from her belt before they made the trek back up to the keep for lunch.

She asked him to lunch with her, alone, and in the most secluded place in all of Skyhold. He told her he would meet her in twenty minutes.

Blackwall went back to his barn and washed the dirt and sweat from his face, he even used a bit of cool water and a rag to wash the sweat from under his arms and his chest. Lastly, he threw on a clean doublet and trousers and made his way to the top of the Templar’s watch tower.

Genevieve was already there, leaning against the battlements and watching a flock of birds dance in the air. She had spread their lunch on a blanket. There was bread, cheese, and a bit of cold chicken from last night’s supper. She’d also brought a few left over eggs from breakfast, some green grapes from Orlais, and a bottle of wine with two mismatched glasses.

“This is quiet the spread for two,” Blackwall commented, when she turned to face him.

“Well, I just wasn’t really sure what to bring,” she admitted. “I did bring wine though, the sweet red you said you liked,” She sat down on the blanket, crossed her legs, and brought the skirt over them to keep the cold off.

Blackwall joined her and poured her a glass of wine. “Shouldn’t I be the one inviting you to picnics on the watch tower?” he chuckled, offering her a glass. She accepted it, took a thoughtful sip and savored. Genevieve had a love of sweet wines to match the Empress herself.

“I suppose so, I just—”

“Got tired of waiting?”

“No, not at all I just thought that with everything we could use…”

Blackwall frowned, “I’m sorry, I’m just not very good at this…courting, thing.”

“Oh no, Blackwall, don’t think that. Oh, Maker’s Breath,” she muttered. “I always manage to mess something up. I didn’t mean that you’re not doing it right I just want to be alone with you for a little while.”

It warmed him to hear that so he reached over the brushed his fingers over her cheek. She still had a slight bruise from their encounter with the Templars. “You didn’t mess anything up,” he told her softly.

A peaceful smile came over her face. “Good, hungry?”

“Starving,” Blackwall chuckled. She passed him the chicken and he sliced some bread and cheese. They made sandwiches, finished the eggs and grapes, and picked at what remained of the chicken carcass while they sipped wine.

Genevieve’s cheeks had turned pink with alcohol and she could not help but giggle all through her story of the first time she and her brother had entered a cheese rolling contest. She and her younger brother, Derrek, had been born only a year apart, she had loved him dearly. When she had turned eight and her powers started to show he had tried to help her hide them, to no avail. She had been in the circle seven years before he was given leave to become a Templar.

“And Derrek was at that age where he was certain that _no girl_ could help him,” she stopped to giggle, “but he’d greased the whole cheese, so there was no way anyone could have picked it up, to his credit he did manage to get it over his head before he dropped it and it went rolling right down the hill and into the audience.” She stopped again to take a drink of wine. “Barreled right into my sister, Lucille, sent her head over heel, right into the mud. Ruined her brand new carnival dress.” They laughed together, Blackwall mostly because he loved to see her so joyful.

Genevieve sighed when her laugh was over. “A year later my brother, Fredrick, would get angry at me—I can’t remember what I did or why—but we were in the library and he threw a book at me and I zapped one of the chairs with lightning, the force of it threw him back. Anything Derrek had done for me was all for naught,”

Blackwall reached over and pulled her to him, he thought she was going to cry, but instead she looked up at him. “But it all brought me to this, I would do all the pain and heartache all over again for this. For this damned mark, for the Inquisition, for you,” He could not help but kiss her. After a minute, she pulled away and looked at her empty glass. “I’ve had far more than I intended.”

They had talked for hours, finished one bottle of wine and Genevieve went down stairs to find a Templar who would bring them another, and then they drank most of that one. Now Blackwall wasn’t sure if it was the drink or the company that made him feel as light as a feather. But he did know he wanted to kiss her so she wouldn’t be upset about her family, and because she had gone out to watch him practice, and had cared for all those children, and because she was everything he could ever want but he didn’t know how else to say it.

So he took the glass from her hand and set it down then reached for her fingers. He set his own goblet down as her fingers slipped into his grasp; they were cool to the touch, long and elegant, a lady’s hand. War had hardened the pads, but they were still soft and gentle. It took a lot of finesse to whorl her staff about, one wrong move and she might harm an ally. Her training had given her a grasp that almost matched the strength of his own.

They drew closer together and Blackwall whispered; “You know I’m not very good with words, my lady. So, may I kiss you?”

“I would like that very much,” she breathed, he could smell the alcohol on her breath.

It was soft at first, delicate. He could taste the red wine and chicken spices on her lips. But after a moment, it wasn’t enough for either of them. Blackwall pulled her onto his lap, she giggled against him and that made him laugh until she caught his lips again. He threaded his fingers through her short hair, kissed her ear, and then her neck. They fell against the stone, Blackwall tried to be mindful of her broken hand, but she ended up situating herself on top of him so her arm wouldn’t press against him. It didn’t bother him at all, he liked the way her knees squeezed his hips, and that he could get his hands around her waist.

He knew she wasn’t drunk, but alcohol and lust were a dangerous combination. And even though he wanted to, he did not push further than kissing. It was so tempting, especially now that she was pressed so close that he felt every movement she made. It made him ache with desire, pooling heat to his center. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. She continued to kiss him. They were so caught up in each other that they didn’t even hear the first time someone cleared their throat.

“ _Inquisitor_ ,” Cassandra barked. Genevieve jumped up, she must have caught the look on the Seeker’s face because she broke into a fit of laughter.

“Oh, Cass, to what do we owe the pleasure?” She chuckled almost mean-spiritedly, then leaned down and pressed another kiss to Blackwall’s lips. He knew it was to spite Cassandra before she even touched him, he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever was going on between them, but he didn’t say a word.

Clearing her throat, Cassandra said; “Your presence is required in the war room,” she looked uncomfortable—down right miserable actually, and obviously annoyed.

“Very well, I’ll be down in a minute.” Genevieve sighed.

Cassandra nodded and left them. Genevieve got up and started clearing away the remnants of their picnic. It was getting dark, Blackwall noted, small wonder someone had come looking for her. The Inquisitor could hardly be gone five minutes without someone worrying about where she was.

“What’s going on between you two?” Blackwall finally asked. He got up, still aching with want, and helped her clear away lunch.

Defensively, Genevieve answered; “Nothing,”

“That’s not _nothing_ ,” he pressed. He couldn’t really say he’d ever seen this side of her before. Angry, yes. Cruel, once. But never spiteful. “She didn’t even sit next to you during breakfast; she always sits to your right,”

“That not true,” she insisted.

“My lady,” he paused and said; “Genevieve, I’ve been a trained swordsman for most of my life, I keep track of every detail I can. Cassandra _always_ takes your right,”

Genevieve frowned. “We had a fight, okay, it happens. Can we drop it?”

He didn’t want to risk an argument with her, but he couldn’t let animosity stew between the Seeker and the Inquisitor. “No, we cannot,” he said. He had seen how they were together, Cassandra was her sister in everything but name. They were even closer than Genevieve and Sera. It was Cassandra who assuaged her fears and self-doubt; Cassandra who’d been the first to say her name when they were deliberating who would be Inquisitor.

“I am the Inquisitor,” Genevieve growled angrily. “If I do not want to talk about something, then I will not.” She never threw rank at anyone unless she was truly angry.

She started for the trap door, but Blackwall stopped her; “ _Genevieve Trevelyan_ ,”

That made her stop. She turned to him, face pulled into a snarl. “You, okay, we’re fighting about _you_.” She dropped everything she had been carrying and he heard the glass cups break. “She keeps telling me that I did the wrong thing, that I should have given you to the wardens, or left you in Orlais, or _whatever_! Not to mention she seems to refuse to acknowledge your existence like some errant child and has the gall to tell me that I’m the one acting like a love sick teenager! And I know that everyone gives me that look, as if their Great Inquisitor has made some kind of mistake, but they don’t know! They don’t know how hard it is! They don’t know that I lie in bed each night dreading the next day because tomorrow I might have to make a choice. Do I sacrifice group A so group B can live or do I let a village burn down so my troops can get home to their families? And that the one person who made it just a little bit easier _was you_.” She had tears running down her cheeks now, “And yes, you left and it broke my heart, but I made the choice that I did because I’m not ready to let this go, I want to keep trying, I want to try to find some kind of happiness when this is all over and I think it will be with you.”

Blackwall was speechless. All he could do was reach forward and bring her into the circle of his arms. She cried against him for a few moments, until she straightened up and wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her dress. He kissed her temple and smoothed her hair.

“Perhaps you should tell that to Lady Cassandra?” Blackwall suggested. “She should be angry at me, not at you.”

“She should get over it,” Genevieve grumbled. “But I know what you mean,” she stood tip-toe and kissed his lips, soft and chaste. “I better go before they send Cullen,”

“And I’ll clean this up,” he told her and then she was gone.

 


	13. Chapter XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to enc0342 and to my readers! Enjoy!

**Chapter XIII**

The Teyrn of Highever, Fergus Cousland, was the first guest to arrive in Skyhold. He came on behalf of Alistair, King of Ferelden with a retinue of fifty men-at-arms and a pair of breeding marbari hounds for the Inquisition’s lackluster kennels. He arrived early in the morning followed by an eclectic collection of Orlesian nobles, and an Antivian merchant. Each arrived with a gift for the Inquisitor.

Blackwall watched from the end of the hall as the Inquisitor sat on her throne looking dreadfully uncomfortable in her finery, and graciously accepted gifts from all her guests. Only the Teyrn and the merchant brought useful gifts. The merchant prince had brought a plethora of cloth and silk that he claimed would make the finest dresses in all of Thedas. Blackwall wondered what the man would think if he found out that his cloth would be used for uniforms, armor, and bandages.

The Orlesians all seemed to be trying to one-up each other with their gifts. One bought her a mask decorated with halla horns, enameled white, and painted with gold. It was a gaudy and impractical thing that Genevieve would never wear or use, but she took it with a smile and all the grace befitting the Inquisitor. Another gave her a golden cage filled with songbirds; two nobles came together to give her a lion statue carved with the words “in remembrance of the Inquisition’s bravery” and offered one of their sons or daughters in marriage. Genevieve politely received the statue, but declined the marriage offers.

The most interesting gift came from an elderly duchess. “A gift from my own garden, your Worship,” her servant held up a strange potted plant. It was green with a yellow center and spikes around the yellow. When the servant touched the end of the flower with a stick, the flower shut closed like jaws. “The plant is from Antiva, it is such a curious thing, and I have been told that you love to tend your garden. It is perfectly harmless, I assure you, your Worship, unless you are a fly or a bee.” She chuckled softly.

“A fly trap,” Genevieve identified. “It is very lovely. Thank you, my lady,” Blackwall knew that whatever game the Orlesians had been playing had been won by the duchess.

That night Genevieve and her advisors supped the nobles in the great hall just off of Josephine’s office while the rest ate in the main hall. Blackwall didn’t have much taste for the company so he ate in his barn and, at Varric’s suggestion, tried to think up something to present Genevieve at the tournament. A favor, the dwarf had called it. He had already made her a Name-Day gift. Would she be expecting some kind of favor?

After he finished eating he looked around his work space trying to find something he could make or give her. He moved things about, papers, wood shavings, tools, until he came across the burnt orange dragon scales he taken from the dragon in the Hinterlands. He picked them up, one at a time, an idea formulating in his mind. With all the scales gathered up he went across the yard to the smithy.

On the morning of the Inquisitor’s actual Name-Day Genevieve called for a private breakfast between herself and her inner circle. Most of the guests had arrived and the archery tournament was to take place in the valley. The children’s carnival and cheese roll would take place in the afternoon until dark. Genevieve had asked some of the mages to go and entertain the children and show them that magic wasn’t so terrible. A celebratory mood filled the keep, and even Blackwall couldn’t help but feel festive.

The great hall had been decorated with flowers and curtains, in the hopes of bring some light color into the dark space. The table had been set with all of the Inquisitor’s favorite breakfast foods; ham, fried eggs, grapes, and sticky buns oozing honey.

Blackwall came in with his gift, a wooden relief of Genevieve’s favorite flowers—poppies, elfroot, black lotus in bloom, daisies, and budding juniper. He had even painted it in painstaking detail. He had used one of the books from the library to match the colors perfectly. It was meant to be hung in her quarters. On the back he had carved “ _so that even if your flowers do not bloom, you have a garden_ ,” It wasn’t fancy and it hadn’t cost him any money, and even though he was certain she would like it, he was still nervous that she wouldn’t.

Genevieve sat at the head of the table admiring a box of soaps and bath oils Vivienne had gifted her. Blackwall did not wish to interrupt so he sat down next to Bull and Varric and poured himself a glass of watered ale.

“I know we don’t always agree, my dear,” the Grand Enchanter was saying. “But I do care about you. These are the kinds a of soaps the Empress fancies, they’re crafted by master soaper in Lydes. The Herald of Andraste deserves no less than the Empress.”

“Thank you Vivienne, they smell wonderful.” Genevieve smiled, Vivienne kissed her cheek and rose to let another give the Inquisitor a gift.

Sera gave her a tray of cookies and a sheaf of parchment covered in doodles. Genevieve spent a few minutes looking over the drawings, laughing with Sera at each drawing. Cole gave her a box filled with bits and bobs, all of them green—Genevieve’s favorite color. Most of her gifts were books, which Blackwall knew she wouldn’t mind at all. Elven poems from Solas, a set of Tevinter history books from Dorian that he promised “is one-hundred percent not sanctioned or recognized by the Magisterium.” Varric gave a copy of each of his books, signed, as well as a manual on underground plants and dwarven horticulture. Bull’s gift was surprisingly thoughtful too, a book of common qunlat phrases and a bottle of whisky he called “dragon’s breath, knock you on your ass, but it’s worth it.”

Just when Blackwall was about to rise and give her his gift, Cassandra finally stepped forward. She held a poorly wrapped package and gingerly set it on the table. Genevieve tore the paper and the Seeker explained; “It’s a copy of the Chant,” she said softly. “I remembered that you told me the copy in the Chantry of Ostwick’s Circle was beautiful—with lambskin and gold lettering—but you couldn’t save it when war broke out.”

Enthralled, Genevieve delicately turned the pages; she ran her fingers gently down the lambskin paper, touching the words with reverence.

“I’m sure it’s not the same as the one in Ostwick, but—”

“Cassandra, it’s wonderful.” Genevieve looked up at the seeker, Blackwall knew they still hadn’t talked, she had admitted that much to him. But now it looked like the gap was patching over. He knew in some relationship, things didn’t have to be said. “Thank you so much,” she stood up and hugged Cassandra, who wasn’t quite sure what to do, but she softened and gave the Inquisitor’s back a light pat.

Blackwall finally stood, carrying his relief with him. Josephine moved the copy of the Chant so that he could present his gift. Genevieve let Cassandra go and sat down. She gasped at the sight of it.

“It’s so beautiful,” she told him. “I love it,”

“I am glad, my lady,” He smiled. She took his hand before he could walk away; he lifted hers to kiss and was rewarded with a smile so sweet it hurt.

“I want it hung above the mantle, I think,” Genevieve told Josephine. “Where it can be seen, it’s so lovely; I want to show it off.”

Josephine nodded, agreeing. “A conversation piece.”

Blackwall covered his horrified look with his tankard. He didn’t like the idea of it being on display for all to see. He imagined her showing it off to a group of Orlesian nobles. Then those noble’s critiquing it as if it were some fine piece of art.

“Now then,” Leliana said, raising her goblet. “A toast to our Inquisitor, who we call friend and leader.”

“Here, here!” Blackwall and Varric called. Bull said something in qunlat and drank his goblet empty.

“Thank you,” Genevieve smiled. “I don’t know what I would do without any of you,” she clapped her hands together. “So let’s eat,”

“One second,” Leliana said. “We have one last gift Inquisitor. From Josie, the Commander, and I.”

Cullen got up from his chair. He gained back the weight he’d lost from his illness, and despite everything he looked at ease. The commander opened the door to the hall and was handed two large boxes. He put them down on the table beside Josephine.

“I picked the shoes,” the spymaster had a genuine smile on her face. She picked up the smaller of the boxes and opened it, revealing a pair of doe-skin boots neatly sown with a pattern of ivy.

“They match the dress,” Josephine opened the larger box and took out a dress of forest green with a sable collar. Blackwall didn’t know much about women’s dresses, but the way Genevieve lit up, he knew she liked it. “We decided you should wear something besides a military uniform,”

“Especially in your own castle, at your own Name-Day dance,” Leliana added, beaming.

“I don’t…” Genevieve could not keep the smile off her face. She ran a delicate finger up and down the fabric. “I don’t even know what to say,”

“Tell us you like it,” Cullen chuckled and a smile came across his usually taciturn face. The festive mood and the privacy of the hall had taken each of them in turn. _Josephine is right, we need this,_ Blackwall thought.

“I love it,” she looked at her companions. “Thank you, everyone, really.”

Varric spoke for them; “Don’t worry about it Inquisitor, just enjoy your Name-Day, relax a little, that’s all we want. Now can we eat? I’m starving.”

They spent two hours laughing and talking and eating. Blackwall had downed four of the sticky buns; living in Skyhold where he had access to such sweets had given him a sweet tooth matched only to the Inquisitor who could hardly go a meal without something honeyed.

By ten o’clock the food had either been eaten or cleared away and there was an impromptu game of wicked grace. Halfway through the game, Ser Brandon entered and told the Inquisitor that a few more guests had arrived and were waiting her pleasure. When she asked who had arrived he answered; “An ambassador from Starkhaven, a Lord Robert de Blanc, and your Worships family.”

The room went silent. “I’m sorry? Did you just say my family is here?” Genevieve had gone pale, and Blackwall was up on his feet and at her side before the knight could answer.

“Yes, my lady,”

“Thank you, Ser. I will attend them in the main hall, the ambassador and Lord de Blanc first.” Her voice was hardly a whisper, but the knight heard her, nodded, and left the room without a word. Genevieve turned to Josephine. “Did you invite them?” she sounded accusatory, almost angry. By now everyone in the inner circle knew of Genevieve’s parents and the extreme they had almost gone to in order to keep their pious family free of magic.

“No, of course not Inquisitor, I correspond with your Aunt, the one letter I sent them they sent back.” Josephine looked almost as flustered as the Inquisitor. She was not prepared for extra guest.

Blackwall put his hand on Genevieve’s shoulder. The others knew the generalities of what had happened to cause a rift between Genevieve and her family, but she had told him everything. _Every horrible detail_. Her father paying off a group of Templars with the promise that she would be made tranquil, her name and identity changed, the plan to make it look like Genevieve Trevelyan had gotten sick and suddenly died. How they had locked her in the basement, terrified of what she was. At the age of eight, a little girl hardly knew what the Rite of Tranquility was, but a servant had, and that brave elven servant had freed her so she could turn herself in to Templars her parents hadn’t bought. _The Circle had its flaws_ , she had told him, _but it saved me._

“Perhaps they want to mend fences?” Josephine suggested and there was a mummer of hopeful agreement.

“No.” Genevieve growled, getting up. “They want something,” she looked to her friends. “Please, everyone, enjoy yourselves. You’re all, of course, invited to share my box when the archery competition begins.”

Blackwall frowned and said; “My lady, please, let me escort you. Let me stay by your side,”

“I would appreciate that,” She muttered, letting him take her arm.

As they left the room, Blackwall heard Cole say; “A little girl, scared of the dark—but more...more scared of herself. Parent’s love turned to ash, a relationship strained by willfulness and broken by magic.”

XXXX

The ambassador from Starkhaven introduced herself as Moraven Drummond, the First Bow of the Starkhaven Archery Corp. “I come on behalf of Prince Sebastian Vael and his Lady Wife, Skylar Hawke-Vael.” She bowed lowed and had a very thick, almost indecipherable burr. She had with her a few men-at-arms and signaled for one to place a book on the nearest table. “A gift from Prince Sebastian, the Complete Sermons of Grand Cleric Elthina, she was my prince’s mentor when he was a brother in the Chantry. He hopes you will find comfort in her teachings, the way he has.” She reached into her cloak and withdrew a golden sun hanging from a golden chain. The symbol of the Chantry. “And this, crafted by the best goldsmith in Starkhaven,”

Genevieve took the chain and examined it. “It’s wonderful, Lady Drummond. Thank you, and when you return home, please tell the Prince and Princess how grateful I am.”

“Aye,” Drummond nodded. “Though, perhaps later you and I might have a chat, in private?”

“Of course,” Genevieve hung the chain around her neck and tucked the pendent into the bodice of her dress, where the symbol would be close to her heart. Blackwall stood at the left side of her throne, where Ser Marbrand usually stood, but the old Templar had been glad to take a seat in the back of the hall instead.

Most of the inner circle had filed out of the great hall and into the main hall to watch the proceedings. They had all gathered closer to the throne, especially after what Cole had said. Blackwall felt a swell of belonging the way they had grouped together their faces grim, each of them ready to defend their Inquisitor. Like a family. A real family.

“Your Worship!” a man’s voice broke through the din of the hall striding so fast towards the throne that the herald hadn’t been given enough time to announce him. He was Orlesian, wore a coat of white and green, and a mask depicting a snowy owl taking flight. “You are even lovelier then I have been told.” He gave a grand sweeping bow and Blackwall just knew he would not like this man.

Josephine said; “Inquisitor, this is Lord Robert de Blanc. He is the ninety-fifth in line for the throne.”

“My lady Inquisitor, it is a true honor to be welcomed into your halls.” Lord de Blanc continued without skipping a beat. “The Inquisition does excellent work, and I am sure you have been thanked a hundred times before, but I extend my purest appreciations to you for ensuring the continued reign of our beloved empress.”

“Of course, my lord, thank you,”

“No, no, thank you your Worship, for you truly are Maker sent, a beacon of hope in dark times. And so I must pledge to you thirty of my Chevaliers, as well as fifty swords of fine Orlesian make.” Blackwall wondered if he’d rehearsed this.

“That is a wonderful gift, my lord. Thank you.”

The lord laughed, Blackwall watched as he moved closer to the throne. For all his fine words and praise, he still wore a mask. It had been decided back when they had first named Genevieve Inquisitor that those who wore a mask could not get to close to her, it was too easy for an assassin to slip by.

So it came as a surprise when the lord slipped off his mask and bowed low so that he could take Genevieve’s hand and kiss it. He was a proper youth; probably the same age as the Inquisitor, his hair was so fair it looked almost white, his eyes bright green, and his smile perfect. No matter how hard Blackwall tried, no matter how much he reminded himself that she loved him, he could not help but be jealous. She wasn’t even looking at Lord de Blanc the way she looked at him, but it still put a pang of envy in him. Or perhaps it was the way the lord was looking at Genevieve that made him so angry.

Then as the young lord backed away from the throne, he shot Blackwall a glance so short and so quick Blackwall couldn’t be sure he hadn’t imagined it. Did the boy know who was? Before Blackwall could ruminate on it further the lord clapped his hands together very loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“And there is something else, of course, a gift, specifically for you.” He stood and signaled to his guard waiting at the doors. His men guided the lumbering creature into the hall for everyone to see. It was gigantic with grey skin and ram horns. _Maker’s balls, are those fingers?_ Blackwall thought. And they were, the damned beast had a set of fingers on his front legs.

Genevieve was staring at the monster, an absolutely befuddled look on her face. “Well, thank you my lord,” she said gracefully. She was practically speechless. “It’s a…it’s a…”

The young guard standing watch by the door to her rooms spoke up; “I believe what your Worship means is ‘it’s a big nug,’”

The Inquisitor attempted a genuine smile, but was so confounded she only half made one; “Yes, exactly, it’s a…it’s a large nug, very handsome. Thank you my lord.”

Lord de Blanc smiled, stepped away from the throne, and slipped his mask back on. “A battle nug, your Worship. They are brave and clever and loyal to their riders.” he told her. “And you are most welcome, Inquisitor.” He made a hand motion and his men began leading his gift back out and clearing the hall. Robert de Blanc left; he would be feasted later with the other honored guests.

Blackwall came up the dais and leaned down to Genevieve’s ear. She was clutching at her arms of her throne, her knuckles white. “You know you can turn them away, right?” he whispered.

“I shouldn’t,” she breathed. “I have to see them,”

Blackwall nodded. “I’ll be right here, and everyone else too.” He looked toward s her rag-tag companions. All of the outcasts, the Inquisition—and by extension, Genevieve—was there home.

“Presenting, Bann Johal Trevelyan; his Lady Wife, Amelia Trevelyan; their son and heir, Fredrick Trevelyan, and his Lady Wife, Henrietta Trevelyan.” The herald cried from the other end of the hall. There was a sudden influx of mumbling in the crowd. Noble, servant, and even the guards could hardly believe it. None of them knew the truth of the contention between Genevieve and her family, but they all knew the Bann of Ostwick had refused to offer aide to the Inquisition and his own daughter.

Blackwall frowned when they entered the hall, they were all dressed in their finery, but the man that Genevieve had describe to him as tall and foreboding, pious to a point of cruelty, was nothing but a decrepit old man hardly able to walk without his cane or his lady wife holding him up. His hair was grey and balding, he looked arthritic, Blackwall could scarcely figure out how the man had made the journey from Ostwick to Skyhold. Genevieve had his nose and his mouth, but where she could outshine the sun with a small smirk, his was a scowl that made Blackwall think he had eaten something rotten before entering the hall.

His wife was grey too, her hair long and up in a tight, neat bun. She had blue eyes, eyes that told him she wanted to be anywhere but here. She kept walking, even though her husband was leaning heavily against her.

Fredrick looked a lot like his sister. Should he and the Inquisitor be stood next to each other anyone would be able to tell they were siblings. His wife was Orlesian, Blackwall could tell just by looking at her. Her hair was golden and her dress matched the style of Val Royeaux.

Genevieve rose from her seat and came down the steps. Blackwall almost stopped her, but she went to the table and took a chair from it. She set it down before the throne so that her father might have a place to sit.

“I don’t need a chair, _girl_ ,” the old man grunted. Then he looked at her and Blackwall saw her cringe slightly. “Or should I say, _your Worship_?”

Blackwall could not help himself, he should have bit his tongue and stayed silent but he couldn’t; “You should call her Inquisitor, old man, and be thankful that she let you in this hall.” He heard Sera and Bull snickering.

“And who are you to speak to the Bann of Ostwick, so?” demanded Lady Trevelyan.

“I am Blackwall; I serve the Herald of Andraste.” Blackwall spat. “And if you think—”

Genevieve turned to him, lightly shaking her head; “It’s okay, Blackwall, I’m a grown woman, I can handle this.” She said it as if she was trying to convince herself. She turned back to her parents. “You do not have to call me, your worship, father; it would be respectful to call me Inquisitor. But you are my family, and it would not bother me if you simply called me Genevieve.”

Bann Trevelyan just glared. Blackwall wondered if he was trying to cow her again, to make her feel weak. He thought to interrupt again, to give her another chance to gather up her thoughts and her feelings. More so, he wanted to tell her not to be the dutiful daughter, but to be the Inquisitor. That was what she needed right now; the impenetrable armor her station gave her.

“Please sit, father, you look as though you’re about to fall over,” She said before returning to her throne. The old man did not yield to the chair, but instead continued to weigh heavy on his wife. “So what brings you to Skyhold, father?”

She was about to say something else when her father raised his voice over hers and shouted; “Magic is meant to serve man and never to rule over him!” He let go of his wife and wheeled around to face the crowd and repeated himself.

Blackwall took a glance at Genevieve. She looked patient but that couldn’t hide the sudden look of anger than came across her face. In her place, Blackwall would have made him stop—of course that was why he wasn’t Inquisitor. Genevieve let him finish before looking out at the crowd.

“Seeker Cassandra,” she said it quietly, but in a voice that commanded respect.

Cassandra came forth and without any prompting said; “I would not have put your name forth as Inquisitor if I felt that you would abuse your power; you serve the people of Thedas, Inquisitor.” This dance had been done before. Anyone who harangued the Inquisitor for being a mage was met with a precise and practiced outcry of support. It was a testament to how often Transfigurations 1:2 had been recited at her as if she were some foolish Chasind child ignorant of the Maker’s word.

Genevieve nodded, muttered “thank you,” and called out; “Ser Marbrand? You’re a Templar, right Ser?” Blackwall saw a hint of sudden nervousness come across the face of Genevieve’s brother. He couldn’t help but smirk.

Marbrand stood up from his place at the back of the hall; “I am, your Worship,” he answered, his voice loud and passionate. “I serve our Lady first, as you are her chosen Herald, I must serve you. Never in the time I have stood by your side have you ever done anything unworthy of my blade—you are a servant, your Worship.”

One of the noble ladies who kept court at Skyhold raise her soft voice and recited Benedictions 4:10 adding at the end; “And my lady Inquisitor is a peacekeeper.”

“Thank you,” Genevieve stood. “As you can see; father, mother, Fredrick. If you have come here to embarrass me in my Hall you will find no forum here. Ser Marbrand, Ser Brandon, please escort my family to the garden. I will speak with them in private.”

Brandon nodded and took her father by the arm. The old man protested, but couldn’t fight the larger, stronger youth. Genevieve waited until they were out of the hall before grabbing hold of the throne and doubling over.

Blackwall went to her; she shook like she was crying but when he reached her he found she was laughing. The hall was silent; they were all waiting to see what would happen. Cassandra solved it with “Isn’t there a tournament you’re all supposed to be at?” and the hall cleared slowly and silently save for the inner circle.

“Are you all right?” Blackwall asked Genevieve, placing his hand on the small of her back.

Genevieve stood up, took his hand, and kissed his knuckles before saying; “When you spoke out I thought my mother was going to have a druffalo,” and then she laughed and kissed him again.

Reeling back, Blackwall frowned. “What’s so funny?” “

I imagine she’s coming to terms with the father of her past and the old man he is now,” Dorian suggested.

“He used to be so tall, as tall as Fredrick. When I was little I had to look up at him and he had to look down at me when we talked,” Genevieve laughed again. “The last time I saw him, he was strong enough to pick me up and throw me into the wine cellar.” she went on; “They were afraid of me, and they still are,” she took a deep breath and muttered. “This is too much for me right now.”

Blackwall frowned. “Would you like to sit down?” he asked gently.

“No, it’s alright. I need to deal with this.” She looked at her friends and smiled. “You should all go down to the Valley for the tournament,” There was a slight protest but she raised her hand. “No, no. I have to do with this alone. Josephine, I’m sure you’ll think of something to excuse my absence. I should finish with this before the children’s carnival.”

Blackwall wavered while the others filed out. He was still holding her hand; he let his thumb draw a small circle over the back of her palm. She smiled sadly, came forward, and kissed his cheek. “I’m not made of glass,” she whispered. “Go, watch the tournament, I’ll come and find you,”

He nodded, still hesitant to leave her. She let go of his hand and gave him an encouraging little push. “I’ll be fine, love,” Finally, he nodded and left her. She had not called him love since she had found him in his dreams all those months ago. He carried that with him, he would be there when she needed him.


	14. Chapter XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love and thanks to enc0432!
> 
> Thanks for all the support!

**Chapter XIV**

In a surprise upset, Sera and the Starkhaven archer tied. Moraven Drummond was given the option of a bow or a purse of coins. The Ambassador chose the coins and then immediately donated the money back to the Inquisition in the name of her Prince. Sera walked away with the bow, and only slightly upset she hadn’t taken the purse too. 

With the archery tournament finished the cheese roll and children’s carnival began. Blackwall waited at the bridge for the Inquisitor. It was well into the afternoon when she came riding down the bridge on her Anderfel courser, Brandon and Marbrand beside her. She had changed out of her finery in favor of a tunic, leggings, and a cloak lined in fennec fur. Her face did not betray her thoughts, but she smiled when she saw him.

Blackwall approached and took the horse by the bridle. “My lady,” he smiled and guided her horse to the makeshift pen where the noblemen had put their mounts for festivities. Marbrand and Brandon put up their beasts and kept a respectful distance from them.

Genevieve hopped down from her horse. Blackwall watched her look around the camp, there were merchants selling their goods, food stalls, minstrels, jugglers, and Inquisition mages playing parlor tricks for the children. She took Blackwall’s arm, but he let her guide their direction.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Blackwall asked. She had spent several hours with her family.

“Can we speak about it later tonight? After dinner? I want to try and enjoy some the festivities.”

“Of course,” Blackwall leaned over and kissed her temple, to his delight, it made her smile.

They walked through the fair taking in the mirth it brought to the refugees and the soldiers. Josephine had been right; there was no denying the boost to morale it was bringing.

Even with all the weight on her shoulders, Blackwall was certain he saw Genevieve enjoying herself. She even lost that world-weary look in her eyes as she used her magic to draw a line of sparks in the air for a group of children. They all laughed when she raised her hands like a cup and sent a jet of fire into the darkening sky.

Blackwall laughed when she made a little owl out of light and made it flap around in the air before hitting the ground and turning into a bunny. The bunny hopped around Ser Marbrand and then back into a bird and then a fish. For the children it was good fun, proof that magic didn’t always destroy and that in the right hands it could be something beautiful.

“Those who pass their harrowing,” Ser Marbrand told him as the fish turned into a large bumble bee. “Are required to learn all these parlor tricks in case some noble should want a mage for a night’s entertainment. I am glad to see it put to better use,”

Blackwall nodded and the knight stepped closer, watching as the bee turned into a small horse. “I was there, you know, during her harrowing. She was this timid—no not timid,” he corrected himself. “ _Quiet_ , a quiet little girl who liked to spend all her time in the garden. Then she came into the harrowing chamber, calm as still water, and all I could think is ‘this is the one, isn’t, Maker? This is the one you’ll make me strike down. To test me? Sweet and quiet and smart, one of the good ones.’ But whatever demon she found in the Fade did not take her.”

“I don’t think any demon can,” Blackwall said.

Marbrand agreed with a nod. “Yes,” he frowned. “I am getting older now; the lyrium is catching up with me. Soon, I won’t remember her or any of them. But I write it all down, so I can read it. And I tell anyone who will listen so that they might tell me one day. I have had no greater honor than serving the Inquisition and its Herald.”

“You’re a good man, Ser.” Blackwall told him. “A better man than me,”

“We do wicked things we regret. Even I was a brigand before the Chantry saved me and I would be one of those Red bastards if not for Derrek and Genevieve Trevelyan.”

Blackwall sighed. “She still hasn’t told me how she got to the conclave in the first place.”

“It is probably not my place to say,” Marbrand frowned and then met Blackwall’s eyes and sighed, “But I can tell you what happened to me,” he cleared his throat. “Many of the Templars at Ostwick had left when the Circles had been dissolved. Those of us who remained were doing our sworn duty to protect mages from themselves and those who would harm them. When we heard about the Conclave the First Enchanter picked her Worship to travel to the meeting and speak with his voice. She had grown out of that quiet little girl and had become something of a voice of reason when the enchanters debated.” He smiled fondly, remember some argument that Blackwall had no doubt Genevieve had finished. “The night before she was meant to leave, some of the mages…decided they did not want to be part of the peace talks. Blood magic was involved.”

“With the circle collapsing around us, Derrek begged me to come with them. Her Worship and a few of the other mages gathered what Tranquil they could find and we left. Even with the First Enchanter dead her Worship wanted to complete the mission. Derrek died protecting innocent apprentices from a blood mage. And then a few weeks later the people he had died to protect perished at the Conclave. All but her.”

Blackwall closed her eyes, sorrow engulfing him. So he looked over at Genevieve, who was making a dragon out of sparks with the help of one of their mage allies. And she was laughing, he still hurt for her, but there she was, still making merry.

“Thanks for sharing, Ser.”

Marbrand nodded solemnly. “When I am a drooling lyrium addled mess, please retell it to me."

Blackwall liked Ser Marbrand to much to want to think of him as a slobbering addict. To clear his mind of such a terrible thought he went to Genevieve’s side. She was handing out candy now while the other mage did tricks.

“Talking about me, are you?” she asked him, playfully.

“Talking, thinking, you are never far from my thoughts, my lady.” Blackwall said.

She smirked, catching his flirt and reached for his hand. “Dinner will be soon and I must entertain my guests. Will you escort me back to the keep and play watchman? I think my knightly shadows deserve a chance to enjoy themselves tonight,”

“It would be an honor,” Blackwall replied.

“Sers,” Genevieve called them over and bid them a good night. “Have some fun,” she told them. “And don’t worry about me, Blackwall will take me up to the keep and stand guard in your place.” The knights thanked her, but did not leave her side until she was mounted and at the bridge.

Blackwall put up their horses and stopped to put on his best looking armor before escorting Genevieve to the great hall where dinner was being served. Josephine rose from her seat when they entered the hall. “And there she is,” she smiled. The food hadn’t been served yet, but the nobles, ambassadors, and people of note, where all seated comfortably sipping wine. Cullen and Leliana were absent, as were the Trevelyan’s.

“I don’t know about you, my friends,” Genevieve began as she took her place at the head of the table. “But I am famished and Belinda is second to none when it comes to suckling pig, shall we eat?” This was met with applause and laughter.

Josephine smiled and gave Blackwall a wink as he went to stand at the back of the hall by the windows. He would eat later, for now he wanted to be a silent, almost intimidating presence. Blackwall had never witnessed Genevieve sup with her noble guests before, he was certain Josephine had set each place in accordance to some rule or to show favor, she sat on Genevieve’s left while on the right was Mother Giselle, the Teyrn, and the Starkhaven ambassador. Lord de Blanc sat beside Josephine, the merchant prince beside him, and then an assortment of nobles filled in the rest of the table.

Supper came out in courses. The first course was made up of savory petite fours. Soup came afterward; some bright red concoction from Orlais that Genevieve politely ate four spoonfuls before gently pushing it aside in anticipation for the main course. The stories flowed as freely as the wine and for someone who hated the Game, she and Josephine made sure to sip their cups and keep their guest’s cups full to the brim; secrets often loosed where wine was poured so freely. In fact, Blackwall was certain the only reason Leliana was not at the table was so she could gather and document anything her people might overhear.

Finally the main course arrived and it was a masterfully roasted sucking pig drizzled in honey and dotted with cloves. Blackwall felt a slight warming in his cheeks when Genevieve ordered some to be set aside for him and the nobles brought their attention to him; “Serah Blackwall has had guard duty all day,” she told her guests “He’ll be riding in the lists so he must keep his strength up.” He was surprised that no one objected or said anything about his past. Although Lord de Blanc peered over to him, but he wore a mask and Blackwall could not see his expression. It was well known in the keep that in another life he had been Thom Rainer, but he wondered if the Lord had heard the news as well.

The pig came with buttered vegetables, fresh bread, potatoes and onions roasted in gravy, and a beef and barely stew for their Ferelden guest. This was hardly what passed for an Orlesian feast, but everyone was enjoying themselves and the bigger, much more important feast would be on the final day of the festivities.

Blackwall noticed Genevieve ate very little and very slowly, only enough to keep her guests from noticing. She listened to every story told, laughed when it was appropriate and commented when she saw fit to. It was like watching a choreographed play, only Blackwall was close enough to the Inquisitor to know she was putting up a front.

By the time dessert rolled around the guests were eager to hear Genevieve tell them a story of her exploits. Lord de Blanc wanted to know the story behind her broken hand and she told it in all its bloody detail, save a few minor details like her lyrium. “Oh, I was miserable afterwards,” she exclaimed. “It’s so much nicer to be in my keep, close to my wine cellars and friends,”

“Here, here!” someone shouted, lifting his goblet. “A toast, to our brave Inquisitor!”

“And of course, to my good friends, and too good food and drink,” she tapped the rim of her cup to those closest to her and took a sip of wine before finishing her crumb cake. “Now then, my friends, I must excuse myself. I have an early day tomorrow, but please enjoy yourselves.” Some of them begged her to stay, to tell another tale, but she was adamant.

“An Inquisitor’s work is never done,” de Blanc said.

“Exactly, my lord. Please excuse me and good night,” she gave them a small bow and waited for Blackwall to push the door open when it closed she took a great sigh of relief. “Lady Clarice is supposed to share my box during the melee, but I swear if that woman mentions her,” she took on her phony Orelsian accent. “‘ _Most handsome and wealthy son, and he is only a little foolish your Worship_ ,’” She made a disgusted noise worthy of Cassandra. “I shall see her thrown off a tower.”

Blackwall held back a snort of laughter. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”

Genevieve sighed, deflated; “No, but sometimes I think I would like too.” She reached over and took his hand in hers. She was leading him to the kitchens.

“Do you wish to talk now, my lady?”

“Yes,” she smiled sadly and turned to him. “I need to check on something first, you should go to the kitchens and get something to eat and we’ll meet at the top of the Templar tower.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I know ham is your favorite, I had some set aside for you, please get something to eat.”

“Should I bring you something?” He could tell she was about to say she just ate when stopped her. “You didn’t eat very much during dinner.” He knew her eating habits, she was the kind of woman who ate when she was hungry and not like one of those skinny nobles.

“I had some cake,” she assured him with a smile. “But I’m not really very hungry today,”

“Alright,” Blackwall kissed her nose, told her he would meet her in an hour, and went on to the kitchens while she headed for the guest rooms.

XXXX

It was dark and chilly after Blackwall finished eating. Before he headed for the tower, he went and changed out of his armor and grabbed a blanket from his bed. Genevieve was already at the top of the tower, she was looking out over the pitch black sky, hands on the battlements. He couldn’t tell if she was shivering or crying so he put the fur over her shoulders. Tentatively, he put his arms around her waist. He drew her in when she didn’t protest.

To his surprise and eternal delight she laid her head against his shoulder and hummed softly. “You’re like a furnace,” she told him. “I’m always warm when you’re around,”

“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?” Blackwall asked.

“A good thing.” and they stayed like that for a while, just taking solace in each other’s company. Down in the valley the festivities were winding down but they could still hear the sound of revelry coming up on the wind. Tomorrow would bring the melee and a mummers show. “Your carving was perfect, I love it,” she told him. “You should do some more and we can hang them up around Skyhold.”

“I am no professional, my lady,” he muttered into her ear. “You’d be better off hiring some Orlesian painter. What I made I meant for you to keep to yourself.”

“And deny it to others?” she turned around in his arms and leaned against the cold stone, her hands on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t dare,”

“You’re too kind,” Blackwall muttered hoping to get a kiss. She gave him one, soft and sweet, without any urgency. When she drew back, the smile she’d kissed him with faded into a frown. “They came here,” she whispered. “Because my father is dying. They came here because he wanted to. He has the same disease that Divine Beatrix had. He can’t remember very much, but he could remember my Name-Day and what he had done and he wanted to come to tell me he was sorry,” the words came in a fury, so fast he almost couldn’t catch them all. “But when he got here he couldn’t remember why he wanted to see me so he reverted to his old ways. My mother says that sometimes it gets so bad he just repeats the Chant over and over.” She met his eyes. “Am I horrible?” she asked him suddenly.

“What?” he kept her tight in the circle of his arms. “Of course not,”

“But I can’t…I can’t cry or do anything, I just watch them crying and begging the Maker to save him and all I feel is awkward—like an outsider.” She admitted pressing her forehead against his chest. “I let him scream at me for hours and then held his hand when he suddenly changed and wanted to see his little girl again…”she took a deep breath. “I didn’t…I didn’t cry. It was like meeting a stranger,”

“That doesn’t make you horrible, Genevieve.” Blackwall smoothed her hair with a gentle hand.

“Then what does it make me?” She leaned heavily against him seeking his warmth and his comfort. He couldn’t help feeling a little smug as her arms came around him and he pulled her in closer. He did feel her pain and wanted to give her whatever comfort she needed, but what man wouldn’t feel the swell of self-pride when a woman as powerful as the Inquisitor turned to him when she needed to talk, to be held, to be loved.

He tucked her head under his chin. “You were eight when you learned you were a mage, they locked you in a cellar, they were going to make a little girl tranquil just to save face, and then you were taken to the circle.” He whispered. “I would be worried if you were so attached to them,” he frowned, realizing what he said and how callous it sounded. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I’m not good at this—”

“I knew what you meant,” she said. “And maybe you’re right. I feel like I don’t know them, because I don’t.” she sighed. “The last time I saw Fredrick he was fourteen and covered in pimples. He’s handsome now, and married. He wife is sweet and soft spoken, and they love each other.”

“What will they do now that you’ve seen your father?” Blackwall asked, releasing her so she could turn and look out at the sky. He stood beside her and put his arm around her waist.

“I gave them some potions recipes I thought might help; I gave him a sleeping draught before coming here. Fredrick asked if he could share my box during the melee. He’s pretty much been ruling Ostwick in father’s stead for the past few years. He has a son, you know,” She smiled fondly, perhaps wondering what her nephew might look like. “Henriette has a few mages in her family, distant relations, but he’s worried his boy will be a mage and he doesn’t know what to do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That if the boy shows any sign of magic he is to be sent to me immediately. The Inquisition will teach him— _I will_ teach him. He seemed to find that agreeable.” She looked down at the stone and let out a small chuckle. “He even apologized for what happened when we were young…said he carried it with him. That even though I was his stupid little sister who followed him around to the point of annoyance, he felt guilty. When the circle fell, he sent men to find me and Derrek. They found Derrek’s corpse and gave him a proper funeral. They gave me up for dead too. It surprised them when they heard I was named the Herald of Andraste and then even more so when I was named Inquisitor.”

“So you’re mending fences. That’s good.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” She nestled her head into his neck. “Thank you for being here,” she whispered.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Then she had her arms around his neck and they were kissing. It was wild and passionate, a kiss they had both been hungering for. Blackwall met her eagerly, giving her anything she wanted—a nibble here, a caress there. This was the kind of kiss that had brought them panting to his hay bales. The kiss he had left that night so he could be the man she thought he was, if only to die that way.

Now he would not take it for granted. He let his fingers follow the length of her spine and felt her shiver. Emboldened, he slipped his hand under the hem of her tunic to touch the warm, soft skin of her belly. Her hand caught his wrist and he stopped, but instead she guided him to where she wanted to be touched. He placed his other hand on her cheek and let his thumb caress down her chin and to her throat making her arch her neck. He kissed the slope of her neck to her shoulder and back up. She whispered his name and it made him think of darkness, a warm bed, of a fire casting red shadows over bare skin.

Who would stop them if he escorted her to her quarters and then simply didn’t come down? Everyone was still at the carnival or dinner; no one would pay attention to them. Besides, they were already a topic of idle gossip, what more would a night in her bed do but fuel a few more weeks of chatter? He could finally say and do all those little wonderful things he had wanted to do the first time. Wake her to sweet nothings whispered in her ear, please her all over again, cradle her against him, and he would stay until morning. An aching fire burned through him as he thought of it.

But despite that ache and the heat and the taste of her, he found himself stopping. She frowned against his lips and asked; “What is it?”

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered taking his hands from her skin and smoothing out her tunic. He put them back on her waist and looked away, feeling almost ashamed.

“Are you alright?” she asked, putting the back of her hand against his forehead.

“I’m fine, little bird,” it slipped and it was too late to take it back. He decided to own it; “May I call you that, Genevieve?”

She nodded, hand still against his forehead. Her fingers trailed down to his cheek. “Yes,”

“I think we should go to bed, little bird.” Blackwall placed his hand over hers. “Separate ones,”

He couldn’t identify the emotion that came across her face. It seemed like confusion at first, and then morphed into disappointment; finally it became a smattering of understanding and embarrassment. She nodded slowly. “Right,”

And now he felt embarrassed and knew he had to say something. “It’s not that I don’t want to…it’s that—”

She finished his sentence for him; “I’m on the emotional edge; it’s okay, I understand, you’re trying to protect me.”

“I don’t want you to do anything you might regret. We’re still working on this,” Blackwall assured her. “But don’t think for one moment I don’t want you,”

Genevieve smiled and kissed his cheek. “Of course, good night,”

“Good night, little bird,” he let her go and watched her leave. The moment she was gone he turned to the battlements and thought that things might be a lot easier if he just simply _jumped off_. Instead, he settled for slamming his fist against the stone. He was trying to protect her—he really truly was—so why did it feel like he’d done something wrong? Why did he feel like such an ass?

He wasn’t really sure how long he’d spent on the top of that tower trying to get over the embarrassment that coursed through him in harsh waves every time he thought of Genevieve. But it was late when he crawled into bed. And even then, he kept thinking about every blunder until unconsciousness took him.

XXXX

There were fifty contestants in the melee. The Iron Bull and his chargers made up several, a few of the Inquisition’s Captains had thrown their hats in, even Ser Brandon was fighting. The rest were made up of knights and nobles, many of Lord Robert de Blanc’s Chevaliers were eager to prove themselves too, although Blackwall doubted they would win. Bull was sure to take the prize.

In all honesty it was hardly a fair fight. The fighters came together in a clash of steal and war cries. Blackwall could hear the qunari shouting in his home tongue, scaring the pants off anyone who got too close. He lifted his dulled iron ax and laughed before knocking a Chevalier unconscious.

Two of Bull’s chargers were out, and three of the Captains. Brandon had fought well until he came upon Krem, who knocked the poor lad out with a keen whack to his helm.

Blackwall sat in the stands near Genevieve’s box. Cassandra, Josephine, and Cullen sat to her right, her brother and his wife sat to her left. They were speaking quietly to one another, hardly paying attention to what was going on. He was glad for it; she had made her brother seem earnest enough. Lady Clarice was there too, looking quiet jilted sitting at the edge of the box, she tried a few times to start a conversation with Genevieve, but she was too enthralled in her brother.

He had yet to speak with her today; he would start with how lovely she looked in her cream colored dress with golden trim. She wore a doe skin cloak, it clasped at her throat with the silver Eye of the Inquisition and she wore Prince Sebastian’s Chantry medallion. Last night had been overindulgent; he was worried she resented him for letting it happen or for not taking it far enough. He kept trying to convince himself that it was just because she was busy. She spent the morning with her father and Mother Giselle, and then invited them all to a private brunch. Then she made quite the show parading down to the melee ring and taking her seat. After the melee the evening mummers show would begin and jugglers, minstrels, and clowns would entertain the refugees and soldiers below. A play was to be put on in the keep for the noble guests along with petite fours and then dinner.

Blackwall turned his attention back to the fight. It was down to a Chevalier, Krem, two Inquisition captains, and Bull. Krem and Bull were going at it while the two captains dealt with the Chevalier. When the Chevalier was finally down, Krem and Bull turned on the captains and took them out before once again turning on each other.

It brought back memories of his win in the Free Marches. Looking back, that was the day when everything had gone wrong. He had won money and power and prestige and all he wanted was more of it. Maybe if he hadn’t have taken that old Chevalier up on his offer and won the tournament he wouldn’t have so thoughtlessly murdered the Calliers…

He tried to focus back on the fighting. Krem was still holding his own against Bull’s onslaught, but he wasn’t going to last much longer. Bull swung his ax in a great arc and Krem barely dodged it. He lost his footing and Bull saw his chance, but Krem was faster and ducked under his ax to smack his blunted blade against the Iron Bull’s chest. Bull laughed at him and then smashed his pommel into Krem’s forehead, putting him out.

The crowd erupted into wild cheers. Bull lifted his ax over his head laughing. Genevieve rose from her seat, clapping and chuckling, and proclaimed him the winner of the melee. He was rewarded with gold and a shield in the shape of a dragon’s wing.

Blackwall cheered as Genevieve handed him a pouch of coins and the shield. Shouting and celebrating continued, the crowds followed Bull around the camp and into the tent-tavern the barkeep of the Herald’s Rest had set up for the tourney. The knocked out or injured from the melee had been taken to the makeshift infirmary tent to be cared for until they woke.

The sun was coming down now, which meant it was time to return to the keep for the play and dinner. As Blackwall went to get his horse Ser Marbrand found him and said; “Her Worship would like you to sit with her and her brother during the show, Serah.”

“I will be there,” Blackwall answered and the Templar returned to Genevieve, who was still speaking with her brother. _They have years of catching up_ , Blackwall thought as he watched her throw her head back in laughter, _amends to make._

Blackwall got up to the keep with enough time to bathe and change into something more fitting for sitting with the Inquisitor during a play. The stage had been put up in the yard against one of the walls. Braziers and candles lit up the platform, benches and chairs made up seating for the audience and already long tables of savory and sweet hors d'oeuvres had been set out, servants waited for their cue before they were to go around and offer refreshments to the guests.

After bathing and changing, Blackwall headed out for the stage. He could pick Genevieve out of any crowd, but he couldn’t spot her here. He decided he would sit and wait for her, but on his way to find a seat, a shadow cut him off.

“Thom Rainer?” An Orlesian voice grunted.

Blackwall turned despite the use of his old name. “It’s Blackwall now,” he corrected, trying not to sound offended.

“I need you to come with me, ser. It is about the Inquisitor.”

“Is she alright?” Blackwall asked, he didn’t want to sound so panicked. He knew Genevieve would have sent Marbrand or Brandon; unless this was an emergency and the man had been sent out of desperation.

“You will have to come with me,”

Blackwall considered himself a naturally suspicious man, and this set his teeth on edge right away. But Genevieve was not at her seat and her welfare was never far from his mind. He frowned, looked the Orlesian man over and, feeling the comfortable weight of a dagger in his belt, said; “Lead the way,”

The Orlesian took Blackwall to the tavern. The place was empty and dark save for one single candle. Lord Robert de Blanc was sitting in one of the chairs. He was wearing his owl mask so Blackwall could not see his face. His Chevaliers were nowhere to be seen and the man who had escorted him to the tavern left them too. At least they were alone.

“Marie Callier was fifteen when you ordered you men to kill her.” The lord growled, his voice low and menacing. “Her father was a loyal servant of the Empress; he was my father’s best friend. Marie was my friend—I loved her—she would be my wife if not for you, Thom Rainer.”

Blackwall swallowed hard and clutched his hands into fist trying to think of the right thing to say. “What I did…” he frowned. In truth there were no words to say, but he had to try. “What I did was wrong—it was evil.”

Robert de Blanc jumped up; his chair fell over, and then slammed his fists on the table. “ _Evil?_ It was _barbarism!_ ”

Blackwall took a step back, not out of fear but because he didn’t want to fight the lad. The lord had every reason to feel the way he did. He didn’t know what he could tell the man, sorry didn’t seem enough. “I serve the Inquisition to repent.” _Let that placate him_ , Blackwall prayed, hoping the Maker would hear him.

“Repent?” he made a noise in the back of his throat that spoke of disgust. “Penitence is for the Maker, I don’t want your apology, I don’t want your atonement—I want what you stole from me. I have seen the way she looks at you; I know what she is to you.”

Blackwall knew what he was talking about. “Genevieve Trevelyan is not an object to be taken,” his rage was instant and intense. He would not hurt the lordling, but he would never allow him to speak against her— _not in her damn keep._

“I won’t have to take her, I will win her,” de Blanc proclaimed. He spoke in the tone of someone swearing a holy vow. “She will pick me because I am the better man. She will want children—mage children I am sure, I have three mages in my line, two uncles and an aunt. I have an estate and soldiers for the Inquisition. And most importantly, I am her _age_.”

Blackwall was still reeling from the talk of the Calliers, and livid over the lord’s insinuation, but he still had it in him to be insulted. “She doesn’t care about pedigree or age for that matter. And if you think you’re going to blackmail me with troops, you’re wrong. We have plenty of men who are loyal to the Inquisition because they believe in it.”

Lord de Blanc might have looked angry under that mask, but Blackwall couldn’t tell. “She will pay attention to me at the joust,” now he just sounded like a petulant child. Blackwall pitied him for half a moment; Genevieve would not be swooned by a joust or by troops. He knew her better than that. “When you embarrass her she will turn from you,”

Blackwall held back a sigh, his rage dissipating into half-pity. “Listen here, _boy_ ,” he grumbled, if the lordling wanted to act like a child, Blackwall would oblige him. “If you think she’s so shallow then you’ll never earn her affection. You’re a fool to—”

“Hey, Beardy? Don’t you have a big britches thingy?” Sera’s voice called out from above.

Both men looked up and found the girl leaning over the railing on the second floor. Blackwall smiled at her interruption. “Aye,” he said. “Thanks for reminding me, Sera. Aren’t you going to see the play?”

“Me? You daft? Nah. I’ll come down for dinner. I was promised pie.”

Lord de Blanc must have been embarrassed. His entire rant heard by Blackwall _and_ Sera. Blackwall smoothed his tunic and put on a smile. “I’ll see you then, we’ll have a drink,” then he looked at de Blanc. “And I’ll see you tomorrow.” He marched out of the tavern. Those feelings of trepidation about the joust had left him. Now he would win if only to prove himself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope you enjoyed it, I liked writing this chapter a lot.
> 
> Alrighty, couple of things: the first is, you guys are awesome, I made it too 100 kudos on that last update and that’s pretty freaking cool. Second, someone, the other day, attacked my beta-ing on my friend enc0432’s story and we both decided that we have to make a public service announcement type thingy on our respective fics:
> 
> I want to say that no one has attacked my friend, all of you are absolutely respectful and wonderful and I really appreciate that. That being said, if there is a mistake, I own it. My beta (bless her heart) has gone through every word of this fic. And we fix spellings and grammar errors if there are any. However, I have the final say in everything. Thank you guys for being totally awesome and being the most respectful group of fanfiction people I’ve ever had the fortune of writing for. 
> 
> My last thing is just a bit of confusion on someone’s part and I just want to clear it up. I do not use the “tumblr head-cannon character ages” thing. I use Patrick Weeke’s, one of the Dragon Age writers, as my source on character ages. Blackwall, according to Weekes, is in his early to mid-forties.


	15. Chapter XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to enc0432 and my awesome readers!

**Chapter XV**

“Listen, Hero,” Varric was saying as Blackwall changed into his jousting armor. “Buttercup told me everything. I think Lord de Blanc is in for a surprise. So don’t worry about him.”

“I wasn’t,” Blackwall muttered. Cole was in the sables feeding his charger sugar cubes. The beast was dressed in the gaudy green and orange poppy caparison and seemed perfectly at ease with the spirit boy.

Half in his armor, Blackwall went and strapped the chanfron onto his charger’s head. “I’m a little more worried about what he might do if he loses.” Blackwall had spent most of the night thinking about what Robert de Blanc had told him about trying to win Genevieve over. For her Name-Day he had presented her with soldiers, would he take them away? Would he turn to their enemy like a jilted lover?

But he couldn’t let the man win either. Despite what he knew of Genevieve, Blackwall couldn’t help but feel nervous about what might happen if _he lost_. He kept telling himself that glory didn’t mean a damn thing to her, but jealousy had taken root in him like a weed and he had woken up in a foul mood after suffering through a dream of her being carried off to get married to some younger, well connected knight.

He was prepared to channel his anger the way he knew best. Rage made good fuel for a warrior’s drive to hit things, and Blackwall _really_ wanted to hit something.

With Varric’s help, Blackwall strapped the rest of his armor on. Somehow, Cole, Sera, and Bull had decided they were going to be his grooms and by that they meant they were going to stand off to the side and take turns handing him a new lance when he needed one and provide their special brand of “moral support.”

“You ready, Hero?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Blackwall grumbled, mounting his horse and accepting his shield from Cole.

“Then the kid and I are heading down to the lists, you better get in position for the procession.” Varric turned to leave when Blackwall called him back. “What?”

“On the workbench,” he pointed. He couldn’t believe he had almost forgotten it. “The package wrapped in silk.”

Varric went to grab it; he unwrapped the silk and smiled gleefully. “Oh Hero, you’re a love story gold mine. _Cassandra would eat this up_.” He was speaking of the favor Blackwall had made for Genevieve. It was a daisy flower with petals made of the creamy colored dragon scales he’d collected; it was set in the center with a piece of green serpentstone, and a thin piece of silvery iron made up the stem and a single leaf.

Carefully, the dwarf folded the flower back into its silk and handed it to Blackwall, who tucked it safely away. Cole and Varric headed down into the valley and Blackwall rode his horse to the line of knights readying for the procession.

The heraldry was different for almost everyone, save those riding with the Inquisition’s Eye as their raiment. Blackwall scanned the crowd for a glimpse of de Blanc’s white owl—all he saw was a prancing horse on blue, the Templar’s flaming sword on black, the yellow field and red mabari of Ferelden, there was even a black ship sailing on a sea of grey.

Blackwall had to quit his search when the elderly Field Marshall called him by name; “Ah! Serah Blackwall,” He pointed between the Ferelden knight and the Templar. “There, between Ser Alice and Ser Gerald.” Blackwall took his place and waited patiently for the Marshall to mount his horse and lead them over the bridge and towards the tiltyard.

It had been so long since Blackwall had seen the pageantry of a joust, it almost surprised him to hear people shouting his name and cheering as he rode past. Some threw flowers at his feet and screamed they had bet on him. But when they got to the lists he couldn’t hear the noise anymore.

Genevieve had put on the green dress she had been given for her Name-Day. The deep green of the fabric had made her sun-tanned skin look pale and her eyes almost glow. He could see the tops of her perfect breasts and for a moment he wondered what it would be like to unlace the front of it.

As he trotted around the lists for the crowd to see him he reached for the silk package and stopped right in front of Genevieve. Her eyes were wide, and a blush was coming across her cheeks. Even Cassandra on her right couldn’t help but look at him.

“A favor,” Blackwall said, holding out the dragon-scale flower, “for my lady,” she started turning red then, but reached out and took the flower. He felt her fingers smooth over his lobster steel gauntlet. So desperately did he want to know what she was thinking, but all she did was take her seat, whisper; “thank you, ser, I will cherish it,” and he was forced to ride on.

Cole, Sera, and Bull were waiting for him. Bull took his shield before he dismounted and said; “Okay, I’ll bite. How do you do it?”

“Do what?” Blackwall asked then turned to Sera and asked her in the line-up had been posted.

“Every time you hand that woman something she looks like she’s about to drop her smalls.” Bull yawned. Sera laughed.

Blackwall would have crossed his arms in annoyance if his armor hadn’t stopped him. Instead he settled for a vexed sigh. “It’s tradition for a man to give his lady a favor just before a joust.”

“Yeah but. Don’t go to bed early tonight, buddy. She’s going to need a _brave knight_ to chase the monsters out _from under her bed_.”

“The Inquisitor doesn’t need anyone for that—now has anyone seen if the list is posted?”

Both Bull and Sera erupted into raucous laughter. Blackwall frowned, he saw the joke he’d fallen into and it wasn’t doing anything to help his mood. “At least keep an eye on the horse,” he growled and marched off to find the tourney list.

When he found the list he was slightly relieved to see that it would be Ser Alice, the Templar against Ser Gerald of Ferelden riding first, then another pair of knight he didn’t know after them. He would ride against the winner of Ser Gerald and Ser Alice’s match. The contestants were not allowed to see the others joust, so he was stuck with Cole until it was his turn to ride.

Sera and Bull went to watch the list while Blackwall and Cole remained with the horse. Cole was rubbing the mount’s nose and fed him a sugar cube. “She liked you in your armor and your flower” the boy said absently. “She’s been so sad for so long but you made it a little brighter,”

Blackwall smiled for the first time today. “Thanks,” he said patting the boy on the shoulder, “and don’t feed him too many, or the poor beast will get a stomachache.”

“Okay,” Cole murmured and then absently added; “The man who doesn’t like you is coming,”

Blackwall turned to see Lord Robert de Blanc passing by. He was mounted on a white Orlesian stallion; the horse was draped in a grey caparison with white owls in mid-flight set diagonally across the fabric. His armor matched the splendor of his horse, it was enameled white and an owl looked as if it was flying out of his chest, the motif even topped his helm. Blackwall’s jousting armor was nice, Varric had spared no expense. It was good, strong steel with an orange poppy carefully painted on his chest. But against the lordling he looked like a pauper; all the better to defeat him.

Lord de Blanc met Blackwall’s eyes and threw down his visor before turning away and trotting back to his tent. Blackwall watched him go; he was starting to feel confined in his armor. He wanted to be on the lanes barreling towards another rider. And like an answered prayer, Bull and Sera found him.

“You’re up, big guy,” Bull exclaimed. “Facing the Ferelden. He broke a lance against that Templar.”

Blackwall nodded. “Anything else?”

“He’s slower than you are,” the qunari said slyly. “And bigger, but you put enough weight in your lance you’ll knock him right off,”

“Put him on his arse!” Sera giggled smacking her right first into her left palm. Blackwall mounted up and made for the lists.

The Field Marshall lifted his hands to silence the crowd. “Serah Blackwall of the Inquisition verses Ser Gerald of Ferelden! Gentlemen, you know the rules. A solid hit against the shoulder guard is worth three points, five points if the lance breaks, and ten points if an opponent in unseated! The first to fifteen points is the winner!”

Blackwall took a deep breath to calm his nerves. He dared not look at the crowd, especially not Genevieve. _No distractions_ , he told himself. Sera brought him a lance; Blackwall took it and kept it upright as per the rules. He would not drop it until he was given permission.

“Do you understand these rules?” the Marshall asked, Blackwall and the knight raised their lances.

“For Alistair, King!” the Ferelden knight roared and flung his visor down with a clang.

“For the Inquisition!” Blackwall shouted, pushing his visor down and spurring his horse when the Marshall waved his pennant.

Blackwall and the knight rushed towards each other and fury of horse and steel. At the halfway mark, their lances lowered and Blackwall felt the sharp press of his lance against hard steel while simultaneously taking his opponent’s lance at the center of his shoulder guard. Blackwall felt the pressure give on his right shoulder as the lance splinted into pieces. The knight’s lance bent perfectly to the blow, a solid hit that almost sent Blackwall off his horse.

He stayed mounted though and turned around the tilt to see that his opponent had stayed seated as well. The crowd had gone wild with cheers and the Field Marshall shouted; “Five points to Serah Blackwall, three to Ser Gerald!”

Blackwall flung his broken lance down and Bull brought him a new one. He lifted his visor for a second and Bull smiled. “Solid hit, but more to the left and knock him down,” Blackwall nodded, put his visor down and lifted his lance in readiness. He wasn’t sure if the qunari knew anything about jousting, but he did know about battle and that was good enough for Blackwall.

With adrenaline coursing through him, Blackwall charged for their second run. The knight’s lance hit him with a loud crack, but Blackwall hit his shoulder dead center, his lance broke into two pieces and when he reached the end of the tiltyard he saw the knight laying in the dirt, his horse trotting to the end of the line. The knight’s men went to him. The crowd was still cheering for Blackwall, but he was focused on the downed knight. For a few tense moments it didn’t look like Ser Gerald was going to get up.

When the knight finally did, he raised his hands and the crowd erupted into cheers. The Marshall shouted; “Ten points for Serah Blackwall, three points for Ser Gerald! For a total of fifteen points for Serah Blackwall and six points for Ser Gerald! Serah Blackwall takes the match!”

Blackwall lifted his visor and then slammed his fist against his chest in salute. He rode down the tilt, arms raised as the crowd cheered him. When he came to the end of the yard Bull and Sera were laughing and cheering along with the crowd. Bull took the reins of his horse and guided the beast out of the yard and towards their tent.

“Maker’s Balls,” Blackwall chuckled as he took his helm off. “I’ve never felt so alive,” he dismounted and let Cole give his horse another sugar cube.

Bull let out a great bellow of laughter. “If you keep riding like that, the boss is going to make this feeling like a distant memory. She had her eyes on you like a hungry dragon staring down lunch,” Blackwall couldn’t help but laugh, he was so full of adrenaline he felt drunk on it. He couldn’t wait for the next match, the next chance to put someone right on their ass.

Blackwall entered his tent and found a flagon of beer and another of water. There was a tray of bread and cheese too. He helped himself to a mug of beer and a bit of cheese. He rolled his shoulders, it was hard with his armor, but he managed to make the joint pop pleasantly. He knew, just knew, he was going feel every single hit later, but right now it felt right—the pain had reached down his back and into his head and it felt deliciously sweet. Battle could give a man a buzz like no other but this was different. This was competition, simulated war—there was a prize. And he would be lying if he said the thought of taking the Inquisitor out of that dress didn’t add to the exuberant feeling coursing through his veins.

Even though he told himself that Genevieve was not shallow enough to care who won and who loosed, he couldn’t help but take Bull’s words to heart. He had not looked at her, but had she really been watching him so close? The thought of her enthralled by his jousting set fire to his blood. It gave him courage—drive.

Blackwall finished his beer and cheese and went to tend his horse. Cole was smiling; “You like to hit people,”

“I do,” Blackwall chuckled. “It clears my head,”

“He does too,” Cole said, pointing at the Ferelden knight. Ser Gerald was striding towards them, already out of his armor.

“You fight well, Ser Blackwall,” Gerald held out his hand. Blackwall gave it a hearty shake.

“Thank you, Ser, and it’s just Serah Blackwall, I am no knight.” Blackwall corrected, he added; “You’re a strong hitter as well, Ser, I’ll be feeling your hits for months.”

Ser Gerald laughed and rolled his shoulders before reaching up and rubbing his left. “Aye, it’s going to be a miserable ride back to Highever. You’ll have a real Ferelden ale with me at the feast of course? The boys heard a rumor you helped slay a dragon and they want to hear the story.”

Blackwall nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it,”

The knight nodded and headed off, most likely to find a place to watch the rest of the tournament.

Blackwall told Cole to stay with the charger and went to check the lists. His name had been moved up in rank and his next opponent was a Chevalier. There were three matches before him, so he had plenty of time to rest. He went back to his tent and drank a cup of water and ate another bit of bread and cheese.

He was coming off his adrenaline when Bull and Sera returned. “You’re up again, big guy.” He tossed Blackwall his helm, and he caught it before putting it onto his head. “It’s an Orlesian, he unhorsed his match on the first run.”

Blackwall snorted and mounted his horse. “He won’t be knocking me down.”

The crowd cheered as Blackwall came out onto the tiltyard. The Field Marshall welcomed him and his foe. The Chevalier wore the intricate jousting armor often used by members of their order. His helm was topped with a bright yellow feather, he declared this match for the Empress and the Empire. Blackwall declared for the Divine and the Fallen Innocent before the two charged.

A second later they slammed into each other. Blackwall saw his lance hit its mark and bend and the Chevalier lost his hold on his horse and fell. The Chevalier jumped up from his seat, he took off his helm and brushed the feather angrily. He shouted for his horse and climbed back up, jammed his helm back on and gave Blackwall a mean stare.

“Ten points to Serah Blackwall, three points to Ser Dubois!”

Sera brought Blackwall his next lance. “Lance him good, beardy.” She giggled and stepped back as they ran the list again. Blackwall felt the force of the Chevalier’s lance and at the same time felt the force of his blow.

 _Fuck_ , Blackwall thought and then he was falling, his hand caught the saddle of his mount. He let go of the saddle and hit the ground, the air rushed out of his lungs. Bull was at his side in a moment. “Breathe, big guy.” The qunari said as lifted Blackwall’s head.

Blackwall relaxed and took a few shallow breaths before he could sit up. He shook his head and took a deep gulp of air. “I’m fine,” he assured the qunari. Bull helped him to his feet. “I can take a hit,” the crowd cheered as he stood. Blackwall walked back to his horse, and the Field Marshall announced; “Three points for Serah Blackwall, ten points for Ser Dubois, leaving them tied!

“Alright you son of a bitch,” Blackwall muttered as Bull gave him his next lance.

On the Marshall’s cue, Blackwall and the Chevalier barreled towards each other. This time Blackwall kept himself in perfect form, adrenaline and rage fueling him. They came together in a crash of iron and wood, both lances shattered, but Blackwall saw the Chevalier loose his balance and fall off the back of his destrier.

Blackwall flung his broke lance down and raised his arms up in victory. He turned towards the crowd and saluted to great cheers and laughter.

“Serah Blackwell takes the match!” the Marshall declared.

Blackwall was too busy celebrating to notice the Chevalier pull himself up stalk towards him. The man pointed and roared; “ _Cheater!_ ” He turned towards the Marshall. “I say he is a cheater! No lowbrow fool could beat one of her Majesty’s _Chevaliers_ in a tilt! I demand he be disqualified!”

“You lost fair and square, ser!” Ser Gerald cried from the stands. Blackwall pulled off his helm.

“I am a lot of things, Ser,” he couldn’t help but feel insulted. “But I am no cheater.”

The Field Marshall stepped off his box and into the dirt. “Surely, Serah Blackwall, you would not mind letting us check your equipment? To assuage the good Ser’s anger.”

“ _I do mind_ ,” Blackwall snapped. “He has no reason to accuse me of cheating. I won the match,” he would not let them put him under some kind of scrutiny because he did not have a “Ser” in front of his name.

“You see, he is obviously a cheater!” the Chevalier continued. “He refuses to submit to an inspection, to hide something for sure!”

The next thing they knew the Inquisitor herself had climbed out of her box and was heading towards them. She crossed her arms and sized them all up. The crowd had gone silent in anticipation for what she would say; “Ser Ulf,” she spoke to the Marshall. “You’ve been the winner of seven grand tourneys and marshalled eight of them, yes?”

“Yes, your Worship.” The Marshall answered.

“Do you see any evidence of tampering?” She reached down and picked up a piece of Blackwall’s broken lance. “This looks to be solid maple.”

The Marshall took the lance and examined it with a careful eye. “Yes, your Worship.”

Genevieve turned to the Chevalier. “And Serah Blackwall’s armor was gifted to him by a close friend of mine and loyal servant of the Inquisition. Are you suggesting, Ser Dubois, that my people would cheat in my own tourney?”

Blackwall wished he was wearing his helm so he could laugh. Instead he kept his face passive as the Chevalier understood what she had said. He bowed low to the Inquisitor and said; “For—forgive me, Herald. I—I did not mean offence.”

Genevieve nodded. “I am sure, Ser Dubois.” Then she turned to Blackwall and he was certain she gave him a longer glance than was appropriate. “Well ridden, Serah Blackwall.” She returned to her seat and Blackwall left the tiltyard for his break.

Blackwall went to his tent and filled a cup with water. He was feeling the heavy strain on his body now. The fall from his horse had hurt more than he expected.

“Cole, help me with my armor would you?” Blackwall asked, exiting the tent. With Cole’s help, Blackwall took off the lance rest and gaurdbrace. He tugged the padded tunic down and saw an ugly purple bruise was beginning to form. He could see little pinpricks of red where the blood vessels under his skin had burst from the force of his lance. His other shoulder couldn’t have been faring better, but he didn’t want to check it.

He and Cole were putting his armor back together when Varric came up to them. “Hail to the conquering Hero,” he shouted. “I bet Dorian a lot of money on that last match; you just won me quite the bet.”

“Glad to be of service,” Blackwall grunted. He wasn’t surprised; Varric and Dorian seemed to bet on everything, from trivial matters to tournaments.

“Oh come on Hero, you’re the underdog, you’ve got the crowd eating out of your hands,” Varric insisted eagerly. “You’ve got about three matches before your next tilt. So you better get something to eat and drink plenty of water. And I have something special for you,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little satchel. He handed it to Blackwall who opened it and found it full of peppermints. “From the Inquisitor herself,”

Blackwall let a smile come across his face. He picked one of the little candies up and popped it into his mouth. Genevieve rarely shared her candy with people who were not children, that she had given him a whole bag was—symbolic. Blackwall savored the sweet coolness of the candy; every time he ate one he remembered all over again why his lady loved them so.

“Here, Cole, from the Inquisitor,” Blackwall placed a candy it the palm of the boy’s hand and he popped it into his mouth with a small smile.

Varric chuckled deep in his chest. “See Hero, the people aren’t the only ones paying attention,” he turned and started back for the tiltyard, stopped mid-stride and said; “Good luck,”

XXXX

Blackwall faced his third opponent of the day with the same strength and determination as he had the first two. This one was an Inquisition captain and she wore the Eye of the Inquisition as her heraldry. Three times they charged each other and three times they both hit their mark without breaking a lance. On their forth tilt she broke her lance against him, totaling fourteen points and for a few minutes Blackwall was certain it was all over, until their fifth run and she let her lance down to fast throwing off her center of gravity. She hit wide, slamming her lance into his breastplate while hit took her in the shoulder and she fell to the ground giving Blackwall the ten points he needed for the match.

As the afternoon grew late, Blackwall found himself the fourth and final rider in the semi-finals. His next foe was another Chevalier; this one topped his helm with a bright blue feather. Bull brought him his lance and said; “He got pretty roughed up in his last run, his lance arm is weaker.”

Blackwall nodded and threw his visor down. The total points he’d accrued had put him neck and neck with Robert de Blanc. As long as he won this match and the lord won his next bout, they would face each other.

With the Field Marshall’s cue, Blackwall gave his horse a slight squeeze and the beast took off down the yard. Halfway, he put his lance down, but he could see the Chevalier was already having trouble. His lance wobbled slightly, and as Blackwall’s hit home and snapped, his lance glanced off Blackwall’s shoulder, hardly a tap. The force of Blackwall’s blow sent the man tumbling out of his seat and into the dirt.

Turning his horse, Blackwall watched as the Chevalier’s grooms helped him to his feet. They took off his helm and offered him water then they spent a great amount of time speaking. Finally, one of the grooms went over to the Field Marshall and it was declared that the Chevalier had withdrawn due to injury.

It was not the win Blackwall wanted, but he wasn’t about to argue with a man who forfeited out of injury. He went back to his tent only to find Dorian waiting for him. The mage smirked and reached into his fancy dress robes. He pulled out a silken handkerchief, the one Genevieve carried around with her.

“I suggest you tie it to your wrist,” Dorian said slyly as he placed the silk onto Blackwall’s outstretched palm.

Blackwall lifted the silk to his lips and kissed it, it smelled of mint and elfroot. Dorian rolled his eyes and snatched the silk away from him. “Your wrist,” he tied the silk around the lobster steel gauntlet. “And, ah, do bathe before you see the Inquisitor tonight—with soap.” He added as an afterthought.

“I always bathe with soap,” Blackwall tried not to sound too offended.

“ _Really_?” Dorian looked genuinely flabbergasted. “Well, in any event, do your best and all that nonsense,”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Blackwall was surprised to hear himself say it.

“Well of course,”

“Do you think we’ll ever be friends?” He was certain now that Genevieve’s favor had made him sentimental.

“Perhaps one day,” the mage chuckled. “It will take a lot of soap.” He walked off without another word.

Blackwall knew the last match ended when Bull and Sera came to join him in his tent. “The Field Marshall called a twenty minute break.” He poured himself a cup of beer and sat down.

“Big bird can sure hit ‘em,” Sera added nonchalantly. Blackwall was certain she was speaking of de Blanc.

“So de Blanc took the match?” Blackwall asked.

“Shiny owl guy?” Sera asked, he nodded. “Yeah,”

Blackwall poured a drink and took a long swallow. He had made it this far. That had to count for something, and win or lose, Genevieve loved him. She’d accepted him even after all he had done—she would not have gone through all the pain and heartache to leave him because he lost a joust. And Lord de Blanc knew nothing about her, he had never fought by her side, had never shared ale with her or a rakish joke, he didn’t know her favorite flower, had never heard her sing, and Blackwall was the man who received her handkerchief, her favor.

If he knew all of this, then why did he feel like everything hinged on this damn joust?

Cole cocked his head to his side and said; “You’re worried you’ll lose?”

Blackwall frowned. “Not now, lad,” he wasn’t terrible interested in having his head rooted around in today.

Bull finished his drink and put a hand on Sera’s shoulder. “We’re gonna go check on something,”

“But—” Sera protested.

“Nope, come on, Sera. Let’s go,” he pushed her out the tent.

Blackwall rolled his eyes and Cole cocked his head again. “The dragon flower you gave her, it made her heart swell so much it hurts—but she likes the pain, it’s a good kind of hurt. It’s the same for you, when she laughs at one of your jokes, or when she tells you she loves you.” Blackwall couldn’t help but let a smile come to his face. “You shouldn’t be worried about losing, you should be thinking about those things instead,”

Quickly, Blackwall snatched the hat off Cole’s head and mussed his hair. At first the boy was confused, but when Blackwall laughed deep in his chest, Cole smiled. “Aye, lad. Thank you,” he put the hat back on Cole’s head and stretched. “Let’s go, win or lose,”

XXXX

The crowd was in an uproar when the Field Marshall announced Blackwall’s entry onto the list. Blackwall was given the chance to prance around the field, showing off his horse and his colors. When a little boy climbed the fence and held out a wildflower, clumps of roots and dirt still hanging on it, Blackwall took it and placed it on his saddle for good luck.

The crowds cheered almost equally as hard for Lord de Blanc. He accepted a rose from a woman before shooting Blackwall a glare. Blackwall did not reciprocate, instead he choose to look at the Inquisitor. She was surrounded by her friends, watching him with soft blue eyes. He saw the sparkle in them, the pride, the joy. Blackwall held up his mailed arm to show her he wore her favor, gently kissed it, and then threw down his visor.

Bull handed him his lance; “He sits his horse better than anyone here, you included. He hasn’t been unseated yet, that makes him cocky.”

Blackwall nodded, and took the lance. The Marshall raised his flag and shouted; “In this final bout, the winner is the first to reach twenty-five points!” he threw his flag down; Blackwall and de Blanc shot forward. He knew something had gone wrong as soon as it happened, he lost his balance and his lance lost its mark. But de Blanc did not miss, and the force of his blow sent Blackwall falling over backwards on his horse.

The sky was starting to darken; it would be full of stars by the end of the match. He could see the pink light of sundown through the slits in his visor. For a few seconds he forgot how to breathe—or he couldn’t, he wasn’t sure. He must have hit the ground at a bad angle because he was suddenly achy from head to toe. _This is worse than sparing with Cassandra_ , he thought.

“Come on, Beardy,” Sera sounded far away. “Let’s get you up,”

He felt hands lifting him into a seated position. Someone pulled his helm off and put a cup of water to his lips. He took a few sips, but what he needed was air. Iron Bull kneeled beside him.

“You hear me, big guy?” He sounded closer than Sera. Blackwall nodded. “You okay?” Blackwall nodded. He couldn’t exactly remember what happened to get him on the ground, but he knew he was angry about it. “Okay, listen up,” Bull continued. “The Inquisitor is sitting right there,” he pointed, Blackwall followed his outstretched arm and found Genevieve standing, eyes focused on him, a worried look on his face. “So you’re going to get back on your horse and you’re going to knock that pompous asshole off his mount. Do you understand?”

Blackwall nodded. “Yes, yeah, help me up.” Bull and Sera helped him to his feet; he staggered slightly, but managed to keep his footing. The crowd cheered him as he took his horse by the reins and mounted. He was dizzy as all hell, but when he pulled on his helm and Bull handed him another lance, he felt everything start to come together.

With a nod to the Field Marshall, the match was back on. The Marshall lifted his flag and Blackwall broke his lance against de Blanc’s guard while de Blanc’s lance hit its mark and nothing more. _Five points, to thirteen_ , Blackwall tossed his broken lance down and accepted a new one from Cole.

Giving his horse a light squeeze, Blackwall took off at the Marshall’s cue. He saw the glint of de Blanc’s armor, felt his lance brace into his shoulder, and saw as the lord fall from his horse. The lord recovered much faster than Blackwall, he brushed off his helm and fixed Blackwall with a glare. Blackwall hid his laugh in his helm.

“ _Fifteen to sixteen!_ ” the Marshall cried.

Bull gave him his next lance and he was off with the wave of a flag. Neither broke lances or missed their marks. “Eighteen to nineteen!”

This time Bull, Sera, and Cole came to his side. “Unseat him, big guy, you can do it,” Blackwall wall nodded and took the lance.

He and de Blanc came together in a clash, de Blanc’s lance broke against Blackwall’s shoulder, and Blackwall hit his mark dead center. The crowd burst into cheers and the Marshall roared; “Twenty-one to Serah Blackwall! Twenty-Four to Lord de Blanc!”

Blackwall threw down his lance, he didn’t want to show his anger but he couldn’t help himself. “Water,” he barked, feeling a sudden thirst. Cole brought him a cup of water; Blackwall tore off his helm and drank the cup empty. He flung the empty cup down and looked over at the Inquisitor and saw her watching; he immediately felt embarrassed. “Thank you Cole,” he muttered, the brought the cloth around his wrist to his lips again and kissed it.

“She’s cheering for you,” Cole said absently. “But she can’t cheer for you,”

“Aye,” Blackwall whispered into the silk. “Come on little bird, you’ve the best luck of any lass I know, share a bit,”

He gave his horse a pat. “Good boy, one more ride and I’ll let Cole give you all the apples and sugar cubes you want.” As an afterthought he said; “And I’ll give you a name, Genevieve names all her beasts.”

After pulling his helm back on Cole brought him his lance. He was sore from head to toe and he swore he could feel the bruises creeping through his skin. Blackwall put his visor down and took a deep breath. _Win or lose—it doesn’t matter_ , he reminded himself, _but I’d rather win_.

Everything was moving slow the same way it did when he was in the heat of battle. He could feel every shift and muscle movement of his horse, saw the dirt being flung by his hooves, could hear each breath. It was only seconds, but it felt like minutes. He knew the moment his lance took de Blanc’s shoulder, saw it snap, saw the lord loose his balance, saw him reel. He felt the moment de Blanc’s lance hit too, saw that his lance didn’t break—Blackwall barely felt it—he was too focused on de Blanc, slipping off the back of his horse.

Blackwall tossed his lance down and threw his arms up. He could hardly hear the Field Marshall over the roaring crowd; “Serah Blackwall takes the tourney!” Blackwall took off his helm and trotted around the tiltyard, the crowds threw flowers at him. Genevieve was on her feet, applauding him, she had forgotten her calm, Inquisitor non-favoritism. He stopped by the Field Marshall and dismounted. He looked around for de Blanc, but the lord had left the field. Probably to nurse his wounded pride.

The Marshall took Blackwall’s right arm and held it up, declaring him the winner. Genevieve came down from her box, carrying a purse of gold and a sword wrapped in oilcloth. Blackwall saluted her and bowed when she approached. The crowd quieted so that she could be heard.

“Serah Blackwall, you rode bravely and with skill. On behalf of the Inquisition, and myself, I present you with the winner’s purse.” Josephine, who stood at her side, took the gold filled pouch and placed it in Blackwall’s open hand. He tucked it into his belt. “And, with this sword, forged by the Inquisition’s master swordsmith,”

She held the scabbard and turned the hilt towards him. Gently, Blackwall grasped the leather wrapped hilt. The pommel was set with a spike, the blade crafted of everite, the scabbard oiled leather. It was a masterwork, set with a lightning rune—the kind of blade worthy of knight.

“Thank you, my lady.” Blackwall finally choked out, he was not worthy of blade. “It is…beautiful.” He honestly wasn’t sure if he was talking about the sword anymore.

Genevieve smiled and helped him sheath the sword before handing it to him. “It’s well deserved.” She whispered.

“ _Kiss_!” Someone—Varric, Blackwall was sure—shouted. It was immediately picked up by the crowd. The chant of “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” sent a wave of embarrassment over Blackwall. He looked at Genevieve, she was red up to her ears, he wondered if she could see the pink in his cheeks as well.

When Josephine clapped her hands and started chanting, they shared a knowing glance. There was no getting out of it. Blackwall stayed still and Genevieve stepped towards him. She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and the crowd roared. She stepped away from him with a smile on her face.

“They’re going to parade you about,” she told him over the din. “Enjoy being the winner and come up to the feast in an hour.”

“I would rather be with you,” he said, enticing a giggle from her _and_ from Josephine.

“The feast will wait for you,” She said. “Please, celebrate, have a little, have fun—for me?”

He could deny her nothing. “As you wish, my lady,” She winked at him and took Josephine’s hand and Blackwall was suddenly swallowed by the crowd.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was a lot of fun! I've always loved jousting and the rules used in this chapter are the rules used by many of the jousting clubs here in America. Sorry about Cole by the way, he feels a bit out of character here but every time I tried to fix it, it interrupted the flow of narrative in a way that I found more displeasing then the original problem. So I left it as is.


	16. Chapter XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I won’t have any time to update on Wednesday, so I present to you an early update! 
> 
> Thanks to enc0432 because she’s awesome and has read several of these chapters multiple times.

**Chapter XVI**

_She must have been waiting_ , Blackwall thought as he paraded through Skyhold’s gates and saw Genevieve standing at the top of the keep stairs. Now free of the crowds, Blackwall could finally breathe. The yard was brightly lit with torches and fire pits. Two enormous tents had been erected with tables and seating meant to support as many people as possible. There was music and dancing in the tents, a makeshift floor had been set up to keep the dancers out of the dirt. Down in the camps they were having their own celebrations and the din of both parties echoed off the mountains. Blackwall wondered how far the noise could be heard.

Blackwall dismounted and Genevieve came to greet him. She was wearing the green dress, her doe skin dancing boots, and now the big bear fur coat. He knew the cloak as soon as he saw it; he’d killed that bear one night in the Hinterlands and had the skin made into a cloak for her.

Carefully, he reached out and touched the fur. “You still have this?” The cloak made her look small, as if she’d been swallowed up in it.

“Of course,” she told him. “It’s cold enough to warrant it, I think.”

“I didn’t get to tell you that you looked lovely this morning,” he said. “You look lovely now,” She smiled and offered him her hand. He took it and led them to the barn, his horse in tow.

“So what does it feel like?” she asked as they reached the barn. “Being the champion?”

Blackwall thought about it while he removed the caparison, the chafron, and reins. “It feels good,” he finally said. “But I have no need of the gold; I’m going to give it to Cullen’s relief fund.”

Genevieve took a brush and started rubbing the horse down. “And the sword?”

“If my lady doesn’t mind, I think I’ll keep it.” He smirked. Genevieve was in the habit of naming all her mounts and all her weapons and he could not help but feel that a sword as lovely as the one he had earned deserved a name as well. He didn’t tell her this, but in his mind he had named the sword _Lady’s Grace_ , in her honor.

“He needs a name,” he said softly; giving the stallion a nose rub. “What do you think?”

She smiled softly and looked the horse over, thinking about his question. She came to stand beside him, slipped her hand into his and said; “He’s your horse,”

“I think I’ll name him Warden, something to aspire to,”

Genevieve nodded with approval. “You’re going to come to the feast right?”

“I am, my lady,” Blackwall put Warden in his pen. “But I should bathe first,” They entered the barn and Blackwall untied the handkerchief from his wrist. “I think this is yours.”

She shook her head. “I gave it you,”

“But it’s your favorite one,”

“I can get another.” She told him. He nodded and started fiddling with his armor. “Here,” she helped him. They stacked the pieces on the floor; he would worry about it later. Right now he was thinking about her, only her—that was all he _wanted_ to think about. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Sore, and tired.” He answered. “I hit my head pretty hard,” in response she took his head in her hands, examining him. She was no healer, but she knew enough to ease pain and read injuries.

“I think you might have a concussion, love,”

“Nothing a healing potion won’t fix,”

“Oh no,” she was smirking and shaking her head, “Concussions are very dangerous, Blackwall you know that. A health potion, sure, but that won’t cut it. You’ll have to stay up all night,” he saw the glint in her eyes and felt a wave of heat come to his face. “And someone will have to watch you, to make sure you don’t fall asleep,”

Blackwall put his hands on her waist, too caught up in her and too high on his victory to care if it was the right thing to do or not. “And I imagine you’re volunteering, my lady?”

“Naturally,” she cooed. She reached up and kissed him. It was sweet and chaste and just passionate enough to promise wilder, more reckless kisses to come. They drew apart and she whispered; “We should skip the feast, I’ll tell Josephine I don’t feel well and excuse myself early. You can follow me up while everyone is still eating and the dancing hasn’t begun in earnest.”

Tempting, _so very tempting._ And to prove it he drew his thumb across her lower lip and then kissed her. But he could not go to her silken sheets and soft furs smelling of horse and sweat. He wanted to comb the sweat and dirt from his beard and hair first. He knew he would go to her, but later when the partiers were either drunk or asleep, then he could sneak up to her quarters and no one would see him. He could take his time then, they could be almost lazy about it. They would have the whole night to learn each other again; this time without the frenzy of desire and shame in his heart. This time he would love her—cherish every inch of her.

But he had promised stories and drinks and she had guests, family among them. She was still reconciling with her brother. He could wait a few hours; build it up in his mind. _Plan._

“It’s the final day of your Name-Day extravaganza, you should enjoy it,” he muttered, tracing the line of her cheekbone. “You should entertain your guests, dance with Josephine or Varric and say good night to your brother. And I will tell some stories, drink some ale, and watch you from afar, like I always do.” He drew closer to her and whispered in her ear. “And we’ll think about each other until midnight,”

“You’re a tease,” she crooned.

“I’m a tease? This coming from a woman who just a moment ago told me I have to stay awake _all night long?_ ”

“Mmm, mage’s orders,” they kissed and she drew away, leaving him alone. He didn’t like it when she left, but he never minded watching her go.

XXXX

Blackwall slammed his empty ale down and bellowed over the revelry around him; “And I kid you not, that qunari _sneezed!_ He sneezed and woke that beast up!” The Ferelden men-at-arms broke into laughter, though none as loud as Ser Gerald.

“You mean the big qunari who won the melee?” Gerald asked sloshing some of his drink onto the table.

“The very one,” Blackwall bellowed. “The next thing I know, I’m jumping from the bloody hill, nearly snapped my damn ankle,” He didn’t realize how much he missed the comradery of a good drink and a good story. The Fereldens were good listeners and even better drinkers. “So The Iron Bull,” he continued. “Hoists me up and we limp back to the women. We realize real quick the dragon isn’t just going to let us go and we’re going to have to fight. So the Inquisitor decides I’m to get under it and slit its belly open, they’re soft under there—in case you ever find yourselves fighting one.”

“Maker forbid!” Gerald roared. “I was there during the Blight, saw our Lady Queen, Maker bless her soul, strike that monstrosity down. I’ve no desire to ever see a dragon ever again.” He took a flagon from a passing serving girl and filled Blackwall’s tankard. “So what happened next?”

“The Inquisitor does one of her spells and brings this rock out of the void,” the men quieted slightly; talk of magic often did that. “And she flings it at the dragon; dragon teeth don’t break easy but that rock cracked a few, you mark my words,”

Gerald interrupted, and he gave Blackwall a cheeky smile. “Speaking of the Inquisitor, she seems very fond of you.” He must have been talking about the kiss the crowd had forced upon them earlier.

“I am one of her guards,” it was his usual response when someone outside the Inquisition asked.

“Right,” one of the boys snorted. Blackwall could tell by the way he carried himself that the boy was green. This was his first time away from home, he guessed, and the first time he’d been allowed to speak so openly. “So what’s it like then, with a mage? Does it tingle? She have any magic that makes it _different?_ ”

Blackwall frowned and set his drink down. “What did you say, boy?” he growled. He was a foolish lad, Blackwall might have simply told him to keep his mouth shut if he were not so far into drink. Instead, he took it as an insult to the Inquisitor, and by extension, himself.

Gerald jumped into action, cuffing the boy on the ear. “She’s the Inquisitor, Benny, if you say another word tonight you’ll be walking back to Ferelden,” he turned to Blackwall, his face red from drink. “Sorry about that Ser, we probably ought to turn in tonight anyway; the Teyrn wants to start for home first thing in the morning,”

Blackwall nodded and got up when they left. He’d seen Varric around here somewhere telling his own stories. He decided it would be nice to sit and listen awhile and have a bit to eat, it might clear some of the alcohol induced fuzziness from his brain.

Varric was surrounded by a crowd of people; they were enthralled by his tale, everyone hanging off every word he had to say. The dwarf was recounting a story about his friend Hawke. It was a story Blackwall had heard a thousand times and yet Varric still managed to tell it like he was telling it for the first time. He took a seat and listened as the dwarf came to the end of his recounting.

“And true to his word, Choir Boy made her put three Sovereigns in the jar,” Varric laughed and the crowd joined him. “It even surprised me how much she cursed on that trip, but I suppose if someone wanted my blood for some crazy ritual I’d be pretty upset too,” It was the story of Corypheus, but he always left that out when he was telling it to strangers. “It’s was just a big bad darkspawn,” he would tell the audience.

Varric caught sight of him and lifted his arms up in celebration; “And there he is! The Hero himself!” The crowd turned and cheered for him, Blackwall smiled and shook some hands. Varric laughed and made a gesture with his head towards the raised dais at the front of the tent. Genevieve’s chair was empty, her bear skin cloak draped over the arms.

Blackwall looked to the dance floor and picked her out right away. She was dancing with Josephine and by the looks of it trying to convince Cassandra to join them. The seeker was stubbornly refusing.

“Now then,” Varric called back the attention of the crowd, and Blackwall decided he’d rather watch the dancing. “I know I’ve told you the Hawke verses the Arishok story—but I don’t think I’ve ever told it from Choir Boy’s point of view. I’ve never heard ‘holy Maker’ used so many times in one sentence…”

Blackwall left them to find a quiet place to sit and watch the dancing. Cassandra had wondered off, leaving Genevieve and Josephine to dance. The minstrel was the girl from the Herald’s Rest, and she was singing a song about a pretty, humble woman with a green hand who tended the Maker’s garden by pulling up red weeds and demon grass. Genevieve was so busy dancing he wondered if she had heard the words to the song and if she knew it was about her.

He watched her twirl, the hem of her dress a green blur. In the Circle mages were not given the opportunity to dance or celebrate beyond religious holidays; she had told him at the Winter Palace Ball, and even those were kept short. Josephine had given her dancing lessons before the Ball, in the presence of Royalty she was expected to know the latest, most popular dances. But now she could let loose and dance whichever way she pleased.

Later, he would dance with her. Just the two of them. Like the time on the balcony at the palace.

Dorian got up from his place and offered his hand to the Inquisitor, and the two danced for a little bit before Teryn Cousland cut in. The Teryn must have made a joke because Genevieve threw her head back in laughter. Blackwall could not hear it over the music, but he could imagine the sound—a sweet noise like the ringing of Chantry bells.

He was so busy dreaming about her laughter that he did not feel the bench creak when someone came to sit by him. Blackwall turned and found himself face to face with Lord Robert de Blanc. The lord was wearing a simple cloth mask now, and his clothes were plainer too. He cleared his throat and held out his hand as if to shake.

Blackwall frowned but took the man’s hand anyway.

“I underestimated you,” de Blanc said matter-o-factly.

Blackwall couldn’t help but laugh. “Aye, well, lots of men do and get it worse than you did.”

The lord chuckled, then slipped his mask off his face; “Good thing we didn’t meet in the melee.”

“Then we both would have lost to The Iron Bull and be nowhere for it.” They shared a laugh and Blackwall decided that maybe de Blanc was just a foolish kid who got a little hot blooded and ahead of himself the other night. He rose from his seat and beckoned over a servant. The girl carried a tray with a bottle of liquor. Blackwall took the bottle and two glasses from the table and filled them with whiskey.

“I must say it,” the lord said after their moment of laughter was over. “I cannot forgive Thom Rainer for what he did, but I can give Serah Blackwall the benefit of the doubt.”

Blackwall nodded and handed him a glass. “The Inquisition makes me a better man.” He took a swallow from his drink, reconciliation required whiskey.

“Good,” de Blanc drank his in a few quick swallows and then rose from his seat. He picked up his mask and folded it up before gently tucking it into his tunic. “It was a win well deserved, Serah Blackwall. You are the better rider,” He was about to walk away, but stopped and looked Blackwall right in the eyes. “But that doesn’t mean I will end my pursuit of the Inquisitor.”

Blackwall remained silent and smiled as the lord walked off to the dance floor and asked the Inquisitor for a dance. Blackwall didn’t like it, but he wasn’t going to stop them. After all, the little lordling didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t his name she would be moaning tonight.

Sera—to his amusement—interrupted the dance. De Blanc stepped away looking snubbed, but instead of making a scene he found Josephine and danced with her. Sera handed Genevieve off to Varric, who had decided to take a break from his storytelling.

“Alright Beardy,” Sera yelled, marching over to him, she sat down across from him. “She says she wants to dance with you, or whatever,”

“But I—”

“No buts!” Sera laughed and then grew serious. “Or I’ll drag you out there,”

Rolling his eyes, Blackwall got up and made a slow walk to the edge of the dancefloor. He could feel Sera glaring arrows into his back when he hesitated. Finally, after watching Varric and Genevieve sway back and forth he made himself step onto the floor.

“May I?” he said with a bow. Varric chuckled and placed Genevieve’s hand in his. Blackwall could already see the little writing wheels begin to turn in the dwarf’s head.

“Thank the Maker,” Genevieve muttered when Varric was out of earshot. “You were just sitting there; I can’t _believe_ I had to make _Sera_ fetch you,”

“I didn’t think you’d want to dance with me,” Blackwall explained taking her hands and keeping a respectful distance from her. He could dance well enough, any Orlesian Captain had to know how, but he really did want to wait until later when it was just the two of them and no one could cut in and the music wouldn’t stop unless they wanted it too.

“ _What?_ ” she seemed generally offended by the notion. “Of course I want to dance with you,” She took his hand and placed it on her waist. “And do it properly, ser,”

“Sorry, my lady.” Blackwall chuckled. They moved to the rhythm of the music and the rest of the world didn’t seem to matter now that he had her in his arms. Blackwall didn’t see anyone staring at them save Sera and Varric. He counted them lucky for that.

“The flower you gave me was…” she paused searching for the right word. “It was perfect,”

“I am glad you liked it, my lady,” Blackwall brought his hand up and she twirled with a slight giggle.

“And you made it?”

“I did. I had some help from one of the smiths, but it is wholly unique. Like you,”

She giggled and turned a slight shade of red. “If I didn’t know any better, Serah, I’d say you said that on purpose. Like something out of one of those awful romance novels Varric writes.”

“Well, you know I’m not very good at this kind of thing,” he muttered, nervous. She had asked him to court her and it seemed all he ever did was blunder about making a fool out of himself or striking it lucky with his usual tact and poorly chosen words.

“Oh, you’re doing fine,” she looked back and forth as if to make sure no one was listening in. “Can you do me a favor?”

“Anything, my lady.” _Anything to make her smile, to make her laugh, to make her happy._

“Every time I try to get something to eat someone interrupts me, and we have some long winded discussion about _dreadfully_ boring things. And all I can think about is you so I can hardly respond,” she smiled. “So I decided to dance because then at least I’ll get a moment without having to hear about Lady Such-and-such’s third cousin twice removed’s daughter is having a son who will be two-hundredth in line for the throne and how _absolutely wonderful_ that is and how if I marry lord-so-and-so’s son we’ll be related and how _delightfully fantastic_ that would be.” 

“Lady Clarice?”

“Argh, if that woman doesn’t leave by the end of the week I swear it—I will have her thrown off a tower. I’m the Inquisitor, I could get away with it right? Make it look like an accident,”

“I imagine Lady Montilyet would take offense,” Blackwall chuckled.

“You’re right of course,” Genevieve sighed, defeated. “Anyway, I am going to excuse myself and I need you to go to the kitchens. Ser Marbrand and Ser Brandon are on watch, but they won’t say a word.”

Blackwall felt a swell of excitement. There would be no holding back this time. “And does my lady have any particular requests?”

“Just a sandwich, I think. And some of those little pickles I like. You know the ones?” Blackwall nodded. “And some of those Antivan olives,”

“And for dessert?” He knew his lady well, she would never end a meal on something salty.

“Something to share,” she said as if it was obvious. “You know, surprise me.”

“Your wish is my command,” he waited until the song ended before giving her a bow and stepping off the stage. He gave her one last glance before making his way to the kitchens, she was speaking with Josephine and a servant had brought her the fur coat from her chair.

The kitchen were still bustling and hot when Blackwall entered. He found Belinda, a surface dwarf who only showed the nicest part of her attitude to Varric and Genevieve, hard a work preparing dough for tomorrow’s breakfast. She ignored him until he told her it was for the Inquisitor.

“Poor dear,” the dwarf grumbled, leaving her bread dough and finding a tray. “She hardly eats when there’s a function, either she hasn’t the appetite or the damn fools won’t let her be.”

“She requested some of those Orlesian pickles and the Antivan olives.” Blackwall watched while she sliced up some bread and spread it with cheese and some sauces before throwing three different meats onto it. She placed it on the tray with a bowl of olives and pickles. But she wasn’t done; she added a bowl of nuts and a bowl of drunken cherries before cutting a large slice of cake.

“I ‘spect she’d like something to drink, can never fault a woman for wanting a good glass of wine,” She went down to the wine cellar then and handed Blackwall a bottle of sweet red, then she put two glasses on the tray and winked. He was forced to wonder if it was so obvious or if Belinda just knew these kinds of things. “Off with you! Use the servant’s door for Maker’s sake man,” she barked when he started for the kitchen’s main door.

Blackwall hurried out the door and up a small flight of stairs. He found himself in the main hall; it was practically empty, save for a few partygoers trying to stay out of the cold. He made himself as nondescript as possible, they didn’t notice him.

Feeling a bit like a thief he pushed open the door to Genevieve’s quarters and came face to face with Ser Brandon and Ser Marbrand. Blackwall felt a little embarrassed passing by the two knights; although it wasn’t like they didn’t know about them. The Inquisitor couldn’t get away with anything without the two knights knowing. But it was because they were silent on any matter regarding her personal life that made them so admiral. They wouldn’t say a word to anyone; that didn’t mean it didn’t bother him, knowing they were one floor below her bedroom.

Being as careful with his tray as he could, Blackwall made his way up the stairs. He couldn’t simple push her bedroom door open so he set the wine bottle on the floor and opened it, propping it open with his back he picked up the bottle and said; “Genevieve? Little bird?”

The room was warm but the veranda doors were wide open, he thought maybe she was out there so he closed the door behind himself and said louder; “Little bird?” Still no response. “Are we playing a game then?” he asked.

There was her wash tub full of steaming water and her dress thrown gently over the back of her desk chair, her robe in a pool near the tub. Soaps, oils, and little bottle of lyrium tonic set out on a tray by the hearth. Blankets pulled down on the bed. But she was nowhere to be seen.

“Blackwall,” it was a whisper, almost inaudible. “Blackwall,” then he saw her hand come up and grasp the lip of the tub from the other side. He dropped the tray and wine and went to her because he knew something was horribly wrong.

“ _Genevieve!_ ” He cried coming around the tub. She was naked; a bolt stuck out from her thigh, blood was oozing from the wound. “Hold on!”

“No, Blackwall, you have to—” she bit back pain as he lifted her in his arms.

“ _Marbrand! Brandon!_ Fucking Templars, get up here _now!_ ” He roared, he thanked the Maker his battlefield voice was loud enough to penetrate the stone. The knights came charging up the stairs.

“Get Cullen!” Marbrand said to Brandon, immediately taking charge. “Sweet Maker what’s happened?”

Blackwall set Genevieve on the bed and Marbrand took the robe from the floor and threw it over her nakedness. She was bloody and pale, and he saw in horror that his hands were covered in her blood. It burned him with a fear he could hardly understand.

“You have to—” Her muttering broke him from his panic.

“I have to what little bird?” he kneeled down and drew close. Her voice was so faint and weary. “What do I need to do?”

It took her a moment to regain coherency. “I got him,” she whispered, her eyes were growing dull. “With ice, before the…bane got…he went over the balcony.” And the she devolved into senseless whimpering—a prayer maybe, with names peppered in.

“Who?” Blackwall asked, but the light in her eyes was fading. “Who, Genevieve? Who?” he roared. She had to hear him. It couldn’t end like this. She _had_ to hear him.

Her eyes met him and the whispering stopped as she collected herself; “he’s still in the keep,” he could see the pain she was in. No simple crossbow bolt could do this, she was poisoned—he knew it. “ _Get him,_ ” she croaked, voice hardly audible over the sound of the blood rushing through his body. “Get him before he hurts someone else,”

“I will. I will,” He told her, though he wasn’t sure she understood him. “Marbrand, stay with her,” he went to the balcony and found a rope hanging off the side. He didn’t have a weapon on him, but that wasn’t going to stop him. As he started down the rope, the keep’s alarms began ringing, a war horn was blown and a response made. There was abrupt rush of shouting below and the sound of the gate slamming shut as if someone had cut the rope that kept the portcullis raised.

Blackwall hit the roof below, breaking shingles. He saw that the would-be-assassin had done the same as well. The culprit left a trail of broken tiles along the roof line. Blackwall jumped off the roof and into the garden below. There was confusion about him, those few guests in the garden gasped in surprise as he pushed his way through them, trampling flowers and grass on his way to the main hall.

He went through the hall and out into the yard. Party guests were in a panic as Cullen’s troops started taking their emergency positions.

Two men tried to stop him and he shoved them off. “You idiots,” he bellowed. “Someone’s tried to kill your Inquisitor she claims she got him with ice, so look for a bastard with ice on his shirt!” They hopped to attention and started spreading the word.

Blackwall tried to think of where he would hide in Skyhold. Skyhold had plenty of caves underneath. They were good for hiding but freezing cold and guarded at all hours. If she had really iced him then the best place to hide was someplace warm where he could wait for the ice to melt and the panic to die down before making his escape. No, he would not go to the caves, there were better places to hide.

“Above the smiths,” Blackwall whispered as it dawned on him. He raised a fist, “With me!” He roared. “Inquisition, with me!” Five men came to his side. The soldiers had gathered up all the party guests and forced them into the yard and so now Blackwall had to push people out of his way if he wanted to get to the other side of the keep.

He stopped and scoped the throng of guests. In the crowd he spotted a lone Inquisition soldier with a cloak wrapped around himself, his lips looked to have a bluish tint. Immediate suspicion set in and Blackwall called to him, “You there!” he shouted, pointing. “We need you to—”

The man jumped up as Blackwall approached and Blackwall grabbed the cloak. The man broke into a sudden run, leaving Blackwall with the nothing but the cloak.

“ _That’s him!_ ” Blackwall roared. “Stop that man!” The man had a crawling of blue ice from his shoulder down to his hand. And in his hand, frozen in his grip he was clutching a crossbow.

The crowd panicked around them, squeezing together and only backing up when the soldiers finally drew their swords. Blackwall climbed up onto one of the feast tables. The assassin was pushing people out of his way and the stupid nobles around him failed to do anything. The man jumped up onto a table and jumped back and forth trying to loose Blackwall.

Lord de Blanc suddenly climbed up onto a table and got in the man’s way. With dagger drawn, de Blanc lunged but the assassin swung his iced arm and smashed it against the lord’s head. de Blanc fell off the table his face bloody, and the assassin had freed his arm from the ice and at only the cost of a few fingers.

“Son of a bitch,” Blackwall was running out of table. “Out of my way!” he jumped off the table, knocked Lady Clarice onto the ground and elbowed his way through the rest of the crowd.

Just when Blackwall though the man was about to grab a noble to take as a hostage, Cassandra came out of the shadows, screaming some war cry and tackled him like an rampaging bronto.

The assassin struggled against the seeker so she punched him hard in the temple. The struggling didn’t cease, but he was more manageable now.

Blackwall would have laughed if he had not just seen Genevieve pale as death only a few minutes ago. “Well done Cassandra,” he said.

“Seeker Cassandra,” she corrected. “Help me with him.” Blackwall hoisted the man up and when he resisted the seeker hit him again. He was more than compliant when they got him into the main hall and threw him at Leliana’s feet.

“Blackwall, hold him,” the spymaster ordered. Blackwall took the man’s left arm and wrenched it behind his back. He had no taste for kindness now, and neither did Leliana.

She was rifling through his coat with the cold stone face of her office. She found a few extra crossbow bolts and three different colored vials, each empty. “Magebane,” she muttered, holding up a bottle of bright purple liquid. “Cassandra, takes these to Madame de Fer, they may save the Inquisitor’s life.”

As Cassandra took the vials up, Cullen and Josephine came down. “Lady Vivienne and Solas have got her breathing again,” Cullen informed them, Blackwall felt his stomach drop. They had got her breathing again—meaning she had stopped breathing more than once.

“Good,” Leliana said taking the man’s chin in her hand and forcing him to look at her. “What poisons did you use?” she demanded.

The man spat at her. Blackwall twisted his arm for it. “Pft, it doesn’t matter.” The man growled, his teeth grit in pain.

Leliana let his chin go and stood up. “You will save yourself a lot of pain if you tell us—if the Inquisitor dies I can assure you I will not let you pass easily.”

“ _Leliana!_ ” Josephine squeaked, appalled. “You can’t—the Inquisitor would never allow it!”

The spymaster turned to Josephine; “The Inquisitor isn’t here to object,”

“But she would never let—not even to her worst enemy,”

“What would you have us do, Josephine?” Cullen bellowed, he pointed up at the bedroom. “She’s stopped breathing twice,”

Blackwall felt dread settle in him. What would he do if she was gone, _what would he do?_ The man he held pinned was chuckling, laughing as the Inquisition devolved into screaming as their leader lay dying. It was too much, Genevieve would never agree to it, she might even hate him for it, but if it saved her life…he didn’t care. He wasn’t going to wait for them to finish arguing the merits of torture.

“What was the poison?” Blackwall commanded. When the man didn’t answer he pulled him up and slammed him into the nearest wall. “I’ll get it out of you boy, one way or another,”

Josephine yelped at the sudden violence and started shouting for someone to find Cole. Blackwall slammed the man into the wall again when he didn’t answer. He knew the man wouldn’t last long if he kept up the beating, so he slammed the man’s face into the stone, leaving a smear of blood and breaking his nose for good measure, before he threw him down at the ground.

Leliana showed nothing of her emotions and Cullen watched in mute horror mixed with approval. It was a desperation that the Inquisitor would never forgive—but what could they do? Genevieve was more than just their leader, she was their only hope. If she died, it was over. They would fight until the end, but how long could they hold out without her mark?

He knew in his heart he was doing a terrible wicked, thing; something he had sworn never to do. Torture was evil, he knew it, but what could he do when a life was in the balance? When Thedas itself was in the balance?

Blackwall looked at Leliana and she nodded at him, she was telling him to continue—a silent pass that nothing would be said to Inquisitor—but did he dare? Would it be worth it? He thought about Genevieve and how if he had not convinced her to stay at the party they would have been in her bed, they would have made love, and he would have her in his arms when this bastard climbed up. If he had just indulged her, if he had just gone against responsibility…if, _if, **if.**_

It didn’t take long for him to lash out again, kicking the man in the ribs until he heard something snap.

The assassin curled up in a ball. He was crying, it failed to move Blackwall’s heart. He raised his leg to kick him again when he cried out; “I don’t know! I don’t know! I swear!”

“Bullshit!” Blackwall bellowed.

“No! No! I swear it! The Venatori just gave it to me! Please call him off, please.” He begged. Leliana nodded and kneeled down beside the man.

“What did they tell you to do?” she asked him, her voice sweet a deadly. A silent promise that if he cooperated, she would protect him from Blackwall.

“They said…” he spat a broke tooth out, his face was almost unrecognizable. “They told me to dip the bolt in all three potions; they didn’t say what they were,”

“He’s telling the truth,” Cole, as he often did, came out of nowhere. “He doesn’t know. But there are others who know. And he knows them.”

Leliana nodded and ordered the guards to take the man down to the dungeon. “Then he will tell us.” She marched after the guards.

Cole looked at Blackwall. “You should have come and got me, I would have been able to tell you.”

“We didn’t have time,” Blackwall growled. He was out of breath; he was in pain, his world crumbling around him.

Cole seemed to recognize this, he said; “The world won’t end with her,”

“Mine will,” he snapped. “I want to see her,” he told Cullen.

Cullen nodded. His opinion didn’t really matter in the end. One way or another, Blackwall was going to see her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I head-cannon that Sebastian makes Hawke contribute to a swear jar.


	17. Chapter XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to enc0432!

**Chapter XVII**

Blackwall found Ser Marbrand in the stairwell on his knees, gently rocking back and forth, his hands clasped together and pressed against his lips in prayer. He was whispering the Chant into his fingertips. He stopped only for a second to peer up at him; his eyes were red and wet with tears.

 _He thinks he’s failed._ Blackwall put his hand on the knight’s shoulder. “She’s strong, Ser Marbrand.” But the words felt hollow. Strength didn’t mean much against poison. The Templar did not answer and went back to his prayer.

The main hall door opened and Cole came up the stairs to stand with Blackwall. “She wants you,” he said. “She’s confused, she’s scared.”

Blackwall took the short flight of stairs two at a time then. Cole behind him. Genevieve’s room was brightly lit. Cassandra stood at one end of the room with Sera and Varric, Bull was at the balcony examining the assassin’s avenue of approach, while Dorian, Solas, and Vivienne stood around Genevieve’s bed.

His stomach tied up into a knot when he saw her, she was propped up on pillows, her skin pale and covered in a sheen of sweat. Already dark shadows had formed under her closed eyes and a bruise was forming on her face where she had hit the stone floor. The bolt was gone from her leg, the wound healed and bandaged. But he saw the slight rise and fall of her chest and knew she wasn’t dead yet, she could still win this—could still survive.

Bull came back in, his usual calm and joking demeanor marred by something Blackwall thought might have been rage. Even the mercenary had come to love her, but who could not? The Inquisitor risked her life for them all; attacking her was like attacking them.

“He must have waited until dark,” Bull began, holding up the rope and arrow the assassin had used to enter the bedroom. “Then while everyone was busy at the party he climbed up here to wait.”

Cassandra strode across the room and snatched the arrow out of his hand; “Why you were up here?” she demanded, pointing the arrow at Blackwall.

“Oh I don’t know Cass—”

“Seeker,” she growled.

“ _Seeker_ , I’m a grown man and she’s a grown woman, what do you think was going to happen?” _Easy Blackwall_ , he told himself, “And thank the Maker I did come up or no one would have known until morning,” _she’s only lashing out because she scared, and so are you._

Cassandra responded with a disgusted noise and examined the arrow. “This never would have happened if Josephine had not insisted on the festival—it was foolish.” 

“It was for morale, Seeker,” Varric snapped. “ _Much_ needed morale,”

“But we knew, with the plague— _we knew_ someone was trying to destroy us from within,” Cassandra threw the arrow down and looked over at Genevieve. “And I have failed.”

“No one failed,” Bull said, but he didn’t sound so confident.

Varric sounded more sure and added; “None of us could have known someone would climb up here and take on a mage like the Inquisitor.”

“Creepy should have known!” Sera suddenly broke her silence. She pointed at Cole, who took a step back, almost as if he was afraid. “He’s always getting into people’s heads, or whatever, why couldn’t he figure out who was planning—”

“Don’t blame the kid, Buttercup,” Varric exclaimed. “He can’t know everything,”

“I agree,” Cassandra growled, eyes turning sharp toward the boy. “He should have known,”

“It’s been getting harder,” Cole whimpered. Blackwall couldn’t help but feel a little angry at the boy, he wanted to defend him, but he couldn’t. Cole could have stopped this. “I can’t hear everyone all the time now and I can’t make them forget.”

Solas cleared his throat and stepped away from the bed; “The Inquisitor helped him become more human, he speaks the truth, Seeker.”

And the room would have devolved into mindless arguing if not for Cole; “Falling, failing, fear—I didn’t do what I was meant to, _Maker I didn’t do what I was meant to_ ,” Cole muttered, rocking gently back and forth. All eyes turned to Genevieve, she was still breathing but her body was ridged and a whimper escaped her pale lips.

Vivienne was examining the bottles Cassandra had brought her, Dorian was frowning, his hand on Genevieve’s forehead. “This isn’t right,” he said.

“I know, dear.” Vivienne whispered.

“What’s not right?” Cassandra demanded.

Dorian took the Inquisitor’s pulse and checked her eyes. “Perhaps we should give her another dose,” He cupped Genevieve’s cheek and started muttering to her. “Come on cousin, you’re stronger than this, if you die who am I going to debate philosophy with? Certainly not Solas, not Vivienne, you wouldn’t do that to me would you?”

“Would someone please tell us what’s happening?” Varric grumbled. The tension, fear, the annoyance, was so thick in the room Blackwall could taste it.

“She isn’t replenishing her mana fast enough,” Solas answered coolly. Of all of them, the elf was keeping his head the best, though Blackwall could see the sweat forming on his brow.

“You can’t feel it the way we do,” Dorian continued. “But in such close proximity we can…feel, is the best word, I suppose, each other’s mana pools. And the Inquisitor’s isn’t replenishing,”

“We purged the magebane already,” Vivienne added.

Blackwall frowned. He wondered how angry they would be when he told them he knew what was wrong. There was an open lyrium tonic on the fireplace. She hadn’t gotten her chance to take it yet. He didn’t know enough about magic to know if it could actually make a difference. _But what if it can?_

Another bout of arguing was beginning, this time between the mages. Blackwall went over to the tray by the hearth. The flower he had made her was sitting on the tray with her press book and a dish of soap. His hands were shaking when he picked up the tray and set it on her desk. He tried to calm himself, tried to find his center, but his world always turned back to the woman in the bed.

With a deep breath Blackwall said; “I think I know what’s wrong.” His voice was shaky.

He was not heard.

He had never felt this weak before, had never felt this helpless. “I said, I think I know what’s wrong with her,” he was louder this time and less unsteady, but the mages were still going at it and Cassandra had joined them. Cole was muttering, Bull and Sera, and Varric were all huddled, talking—no one was listening.

Carefully, he reached down and picked up the tiny vial. He took another breath and this time shouted over the oppressive din; “Would everyone _shut up!_ ” That got their attention. “I know what’s wrong!” he marched over to the bed, shoved Dorian out of the way, and kneeled.

When he slipped his hand under her back to pick her up, her skin was cold. He leaned her against the backboard and brought the vial to her lips. He tipped a little of the tonic into her mouth and pinched her nose to make her swallow. Then a little bit more, and a bit more, and then the bottle was empty. He put the vial on the nightstand and slipped his hands under her again to make her comfortable.

Vivienne snatched the bottle off the nightstand and sniffed it. “Lyrium, it would seem the Inquisitor has been keeping quite the secret.”

“I knew,” Blackwall confessed, he had Genevieve’s hand in his so that he could gently stroke the top of it.

“What?” Cassandra gasped. “What did you know?”

“She’s been taking lyrium tonic because she used it to give herself a boost for a Fadewalk, or whatever it is you mages call it.” He was kissing her fingers now, hoping maybe that might help her. That she might feel him, that it maybe—just maybe, it might bring her back.

“A Fadewalk?” Dorian didn’t sound convinced.

“She said she used her mark and a few bottles of lyrium, when I left she used it to find me in my dreams.”

“Oh shit,” Varric muttered.

Blackwall knew it would happen before it did; Cassandra grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back. He hit the floor, jarring his aching bones. “Get away from her!” the Seeker screeched. “Get out of here! I should not have let her go after you!” Blackwall got back to his feet and Cassandra would have been on him if not for Dorian and Varric.

“I should have killed you the moment I learned who you were! The moment I found out you weren’t a warden!” Cassandra screamed, Blackwall saw the tears forming in her eyes.

Varric turned to him, “Better leave, Hero. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Blackwall nodded, he didn’t want to leave his lady’s side, but he owed Cassandra a chance to grieve in peace without him there to cause her undue strife. He left the room without a word.

In the main hall, Cullen and Josephine were doing their best to answer questions. With the culprit caught there was no need to keep them all in a herd on the lawn. Lord de Blanc was being tended too by a one of the mages, his face was bruised, lip cut, and nose broken, but he was alive and even greeted Blackwall with a respectful nod.

“But I must return home for the—”

Cullen shook his head. “I already told you, Lady Clarice, no one is leaving this keep until this is sorted out. Those gates stay shut and our men have been given orders to arrest anyone who tries to leave.”

“We still don’t even know what’s happened!” a man cried from the back of the hall.

“And we will let you know when we decide to let you know,” Cullen barked, annoyed.

“Then, Commander Rutherford, may we use the rookery?” the Starkhaven archer asked politely.

“I am afraid not, Serah Moravan.” Josephine answered. “At least not tonight, we have locked down the castle and we would ask all guests to please return to their rooms for the night.” This was met with more mumbling and yelling. Josephine saw Blackwall and beckoned him over.

“Serah Blackwall, is she alright?”

“She is alive,” he whispered. “That’s the extent of what I can tell you.”

Josephine nodded and cringed when Cullen started shouting down another noble. “Do you think…” she paused, it was hard to see Josephine at a loss for words “It’s…I need to—I have to stay here and deal with the rabble, but I need someone to speak to Bann Trevelyan.”

“You want me to do it?” He would have been surprised if his emotions hadn’t drained him.

“Someone has too,”

Blackwall nodded reluctantly. “Aye, someone has too. Where’s the room?”

XXXX

The Trevelyan family had been given one of the larger guest rooms with two beds and a big hearth. Blackwall knocked on the door and Genevieve’s brother, Fredrick answered. Heat rolled out of the room in waves, Blackwall wondered how they could stand it.

“May I come in?” Blackwall asked.

Fredrick looked him up and down. “Serah Blackwall, we heard the alarms but the guards asked us to remain in our room, what’s wrong?” He opened the door wide enough to admit Blackwall. The fireplace was roaring making the room so hot Blackwall felt sweat beginning to form on his brow the moment he came in. Fredrick’s wife was sitting by the fire doing needle work; his mother was sitting on the bed tending to the Bann.

Despite the heat of the room, the Bann was wrapped in blankets. He was propped against the headboard, barely lucid. Blackwall heard him mumbling, but couldn’t understand what he was saying. His wife was petting him and whispering into his ear as if she was trying to coax him out of a fit.

Blackwall focused himself on the task at hand; “It’s the Inquisitor,” he said as Fredrick closed the door behind him. “Someone has tried to kill her,”

Fredrick’s wife gasped and stopped her needle point. Fredrick crossed his arms behind his back and took on the persona of someone used to accepting terrible news with grace. “Who would do such a thing?” he asked, calmly.

“A traitor, an agent of the Venatori.” Blackwall answered and Fredrick nodded, although Blackwall wasn’t sure he knew exactly what the Venatori were. “Right now she seems…stable.”

“Stable?”

“Poison was used.” His voice cracked, it was hard to say it all out loud. Saying it meant it had happened and that this wasn’t just some terrible dream.

Fredrick nodded slowly. “Will I be able to see her?”

“I will speak with Lady Montiyet, though I am sure no one would deny you.” Blackwall wet his lips; the room was just too hot.

“Thank you, Serah,” Fredrick said and turned to his father. Blackwall meant to turn and leave but he saw the boy take his father’s hand. “Father, Genevieve has been hurt,”

The old man looked at his son, confused; “Genevieve?”

“Yes father, the Inquisitor. Your daughter,”

“Genevieve? Genevieve? _Genevieve_.” the Bann muttered recognition dawning across his face. “Is she out in the mud with Derrek again? I swear those too, thick as thieves.”

“Yes father, but something has happened. Someone hurt her, she’s ill, father.”

“Why would someone hurt our little Genevieve?” he looked to his wife for hope of an explanation. “She’s a sweet girl, obstinate, doesn’t care much for rules, but she’s a little girl—”

“I know darling, and I’m sure the men who did this to her will be punished.” The woman looked at Blackwall. She did not seem to mind that he was there.

“Harshly,” Blackwall answered, reassuring them that justice would be done.

“Father, perhaps, maybe you would like to go and see her?” Fredrick asked.

“Who?”

“Genevieve, your daughter,” Fredrick held his father’s hand to his lips.

The old man’s face twisted into a sneer and his voice went from soft to cruel. “ _Genevieve_ ,” he spat. “That _mage_ is no daughter of mine.” Then he chanted Transfigurations 1:2 and Blackwall could not take it. He slipped out of the room and into the cool night air.

He went back down to the main hall. Many of the guests had cleared out but there were still some stubborn ones demanding answers from Josephine. The ambassador was looking flustered and exhausted but she was doing her best to fend them off. She saw Blackwall and excused herself while also adding it would be in their best interests to return to their rooms.

“Did you speak with the Bann?” Josephine asked, smoothing her dress and rumpled hair.

“They want to see her, or at least the Inquisitor’s brother does.” Blackwall answered.

“Then he will,” Josephine sighed and whispered. “You should get some rest, Serah.”

“The Inquisitor said I had a concussion, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.” Blackwall told her. “But you, you should get some rest, Lady Montilyet. These nobles will get the hint eventually.”

“You’re probably right,” the ambassador murmured. “But I don’t think anyone will be sleeping tonight.” Blackwall nodded and they parted.

XXXX

He didn’t know what to do so he wandered. He didn’t know where he was going or why, he just had to move, standing still meant thinking about things he wasn’t ready to think about. Random, unfettered movement made it easier.

As the sun began to rise, he found himself pacing the garden listening to Mother Giselle sing the Chant in the chapel. So many had come to listen, to sing, and to pray they had left the doors open and people gathered in the walkway. If they noticed him, they left him alone.

The joust was catching up to him now, he felt weak all over and finally succumbed to his aching joints. He sat down on one of the benches and tried to let the sound from the chapel keep him busy. But when they quieted in their own silent reflection, Blackwall found his thoughts roaming.

 _You sent her, didn’t you?_ _Why would you let her be taken so easily?_ He wasn’t sure if he was praying or simply thinking. _Why would Andraste’s Herald be so fragile? Is this a punishment? Has she displeased you? Has she surrounded herself by people like me—are you doing this because of me?_

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” he growled to the air, fist shaking in a sudden fit of rage. “If you’re willing to turn your back on someone like Genevieve Trevelyan, then you should keep your back turned—you are not worthy of man’s devotion.” If the Maker was listening to such blasphemies, then he did not strike back.

They started the Chant again and he could not bear to hear it. He stomped out of the garden and into the main hall where Varric stopped him.

“There you are Hero,” the dwarf beckoned him over to his favorite place by the hearth. He looked grim.

“What is it?” The wave of dread almost sent him to his knees.

“She’s alright,” Varric assured him. “Better, actually.” That freed Blackwall from the dread, though not the worry. He took a chair by the fire, cold and tired and angry.

Varric sat next to him. “The Iron Lady figured out one of the poisons—the deadly one—and they gave her the counteractive.”

Blackwall let his head fall against the back of the chair. Maybe the Maker was listening to prayers.

“She isn’t out of the woods yet,” Varric added. “But it’s a start. She’s feverish and partially paralyzed.”

“I suppose that’s better than not breathing,” Blackwall grumbled.

“Yeah, I’d say it is.” Varric got up from his seat. “Come on Hero, let’s go drink.”

The feast outside in the yard had all but been abandoned so they went around and picked the half empty wine bottles and pitchers of ale and parked themselves around the firepit in Blackwall’s barn.

They finished off three bottles of wine before Varric finally asked him what Blackwall knew he had been itching to ask; “How long did you know about the lyrium?”

“We were in the Hinterlands looking for that damned plant;caught her drinking it when she went to find firewood.” He answered gruffly. “Said she had it all under control. I didn’t feel like I was in a position to be telling her secrets, so I kept it to myself. But it’s true, what I said, she used the lyrium to find me. It’s my fault.” It was easy to come clean to Varric, if he judged, he didn’t show it.

“I doubt she thinks that,” Varric muttered and poured Blackwall another drink.

Blackwall didn’t even remember falling asleep until someone shook him awake. Bull was standing over him and Varric, Leliana and Cullen stood off to one side with Ser Marbrand and another Templar Blackwall couldn’t remember the name to.

“What is it?” Blackwall asked, assuming the worst.

“Our would-be assassin told me about his accomplices.” Leliana answered, she sounded angry. “There are more of them then I thought. So we must split into groups and strike in tandem.”

“We need you, Ser Marbrand, and Ser Terrek to hit the mage quarters. Fiona will direct you,” Cullen said. “While Bull, Varric and the Chargers will go after the traitors in the barracks. I’ll take a few of Lord de Blanc’s Chevaliers into the kitchens.”

“Once you have them, drag them out to the yard,” Leliana ordered.

Blackwall rose, his eyes felt heavy and his headache worse. He wasn’t sure how much use he would be in a fight. He was too stiff to swing a sword. “How do we know Lord de Blanc isn’t involved?” he asked.

“He is not,” Leliana said and that was good enough for Blackwall.

“Well,” Varric yawned and stretched. “Let me get Bianca.”

Blackwall went upstairs and put on his armor. He was still covered in bruises from his joust and sleeping in the cold while drunk hadn’t done him any good. He was forced to finally ask for help. Ser Marbrand silently obliged. The Templar looked better, but Blackwall could see the shadow of rage in him. Attacking the Inquisitor had been an attack on the Inquisition—on all of them—a violation of their home, the place they felt safe.

“Thank you, Ser,” Blackwall said, taking up his sword and shield.

Marbrand nodded. “Be wary, Serah, we go after a mage.”

“Let’s go then,”

 


	18. Chapter XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I can’t believe we’re getting nearer to the end. To think, I started this on a whim during Christmas break and here it is, February and only two chapters left to go. I reached a 150 Kudo last night and that is just so cool! Thanks guys, you’re awesome!
> 
> And thanks to enc0432, who I am not kidding, went through almost each chapter twice.

**Chapter XVIII**

Fiona was waiting for them when they came to the mage quarters. She looked worried and sleepy. “I’ve checked three times, they’re all asleep. If we move quickly and quietly, we may get her before she even knows what’s happening.” 

Ser Terrek opened the door and Fiona stepped in first. Ser Marbrand followed her and Blackwall behind him; Terrek waited a moment and then gently closed the door behind them. The mage quarters were just as crowded and stuffy as the barracks. Bunks were pushed against the walls on each side leaving a narrow walkway down the center of the hall.

Blackwall watched the sleeping faces and listened to the sounds of gentle snores. They were all clueless, completely unaware that there was a traitor in their midst. Hopefully they would do it quietly enough that none of them would know until morning. Keeping the innocent out of the crossfire was the best way to do anything.

Fiona stopped pointed at a bed at the end of the hall. Marbrand and Terrek stepped forward, Blackwall and Fiona followed. The Templars took one side of the bed while Blackwall and Fiona took the other. The mage in the bed was young; she almost looked like a child with her face softened by sleep. Blackwall could not believe that a little girl would be an accomplice to such a crime. _She must have been manipulated_ , he thought— _hoped._

Marbrand carefully peeled the blanket from the girl’s body and her eyes came open as if she had been waiting for them. She had not been sleeping, only pretending. The girl flung up her hand and Blackwall felt a hot rush of air hit him in the face. He went blind. Voices and screams flew through his head, children crying for their parents as his men took axes to a carriage door, darkspawn hissing at him from the shadows, the deafening sound of steal ringing against steal, a demon’s laugh, all of it culminating to the sound of Genevieve screaming for his help, her voice getting further and further away as if she were being carried off.

Blackwall turned to chase after her, determined to kill anyone who would make her scream like that. But as he made ready to run he tripped hard and fell to the ground, jarring himself out of the horror by stumbling over a bed and on to the occupant. He was disoriented but he heard the sound of the tower waking.

Fiona was shouting for her mages to stand down, some were not listening. The man Blackwall had fallen against pushed him off and a glow came about his hands. Unsure of how to respond, Blackwall slammed his fist into the man’s jaw, knocking him back and stopping the spell.

Someone from across the room hurled a spell at Ser Marbrand. The Templars both responded by rising their fists and smiting anyone close enough. The girl they were after was screeching; “The Inquisitor lied!” She screamed, flailing her limbs about in a vain attempt to stop the Templars. “She’s sent her Templars to kill us! Help me! Don’t let them have me!”

“Stand down!” Fiona cried, her skin was pale; the smite had caught her too. “Marlow is a traitor!”

Blackwall forced himself to his feet just in time to tackle the girl when she broke from Ser Terrek’s grasp. She lashed out at him, her finger nails cutting across the skin of his face. Marbrand grabbed her hands before she could strike again, and yanked her to her feet.

“You’re under arrest for conspiring to kill her Worship, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, chosen Herald of our Lady.” Marbrand growled, Terrek helped him bind her hands and then helped Blackwall back to his feet.

“ _Herald_ ,” the girl spat, “She’s a thief! A liar! I’m the one doing right by mages! She surrounds herself with Templars!” Her rant turned to less coherent things and Blackwall found himself tuning it out.

They waited for order to come back to the tower. Fiona, with the help of a few of the older mages, managed to calm the younger ones down. The mages were shaken and scared, but no one resisted as they dragged the girl out into the early morning air.

Once out, Blackwall leaned against a nearby wall and took a few deep breaths, now free of the confines of stuffy quarters he could finally focus. He still felt the effects of the girl’s horror spell. Genevieve’s screams had morphed into more primal sounds, but it was receding ever so slowly.

“Serah Blackwall,” Marbrand said, still holding the struggling girl. “Are you alright? Horror is a nasty spell.”

“Aye, I’ll live,” it didn’t help that he was hung over.

“They teach recruits to center their thoughts on the Maker and his light, but I find fresh air and a brandy does the trick just as well.” The old knight offered.

“I may just try that,” Blackwall thought Marbrand looked a lot better now that he was doing something that might help them bring justice to their fallen Inquisitor. There was a sparkle in his eyes, or at least getting to use a little pent up anger and lyrium on the girl they captured had put him in better spirits.

They dragged the girl to the dungeon entrance and sat her down with two other prisoners. Varric and Bull were waiting patiently for them, their eyes keenly locked on their captures. Leliana observed them with cold eyes; her face betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

Varric came to stand with Blackwall. “You look awful,”

“Horror,” Blackwall answered.

“Ah,” Varric yawned. “Bull’s a little disappointed, they gave themselves up.” He pointed at the two men dressed in Inquisition livery, their heads bowed, arms tied behind their backs, and hair disheveled.

Cullen came down the keep steps leading a mix of Chevaliers and soldiers behind him. Two soldiers held a man between them. “He ran,” Cullen grumbled. He had a bleeding cut on his forehead. “We found these under his bunk,” a Chevalier handed Leliana two opaque bottles.

“Madame de Fer will want to see this,” she beckoned Varric over and told him to take them up to her. With the prisoners assembled, Leliana crossed her arms. “I can promise nothing to you,” she told the prisoners. “Except a trial and the mercy of the Inquisitor.” She made a movement with her hand and the soldiers gathered the prisoners up and shuffled them into the dungeons.

Blackwall sighed, he needed something to eat and more sleep. He went to the kitchen and found Belinda and her staff hard at work. The dwarven woman stopped kneading her bread when Blackwall entered and sat him down at the kitchen staff’s table. She brought him bread and cheese and honey. To his surprise she told him if there was anything else he wanted he was to come to her and she would do her best to see it done.

He dabbed honey onto his bread and it reminded him of a kiss he’s shared with Genevieve only a few weeks ago. They had just finished breakfast and she always put honey on her bread so when he kissed her, her lips tasted like honey and her mouth even sweeter. Honey, mint, elfroot, and lavender were smells that clung to her like perfume. He missed the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin—longing burned through him and he felt his broken heart break again at the thought that she might never come back from this.

Varric had given him solace, but he still worried that she might not wake. That the fever might burn her out. He wanted to kiss her again, to feel her fingers thread through his beard the way they sometimes did when they got carried away. _Maker,_ he just wanted to talk to her, hear her sing…

He finished off his piece of honeyed bread, cut another slice, and dabbed it with more honey. It made him feel better, almost closer to her. Sweets always brought a smile to her face, from Belinda’s sweet peppermint candies, to Orlesian toffees, and Ferelden pies. And the way she enjoyed them made him enjoy them more. He never would have tried sweet Orlesian candy if not for her instance, nor would he have ever thought honey was a luxury one couldn’t live without. She had once told him that her love of candy made her feel selfish, but that to live without it would make her miserable and he had been forced to agree. Many people knew her as the Herald of Andraste, they knew she had a fondness for a certain ornery dracolisk, that she liked to tend the garden, and they knew she was a mage, but not many could say they knew her favorite sweet, or her favorite flower, or that when she sang she could hardly carry a tune in a bucket.

But he knew those things, and it was the most wonderful thing in all of Thedas to know them. He could not bear the thought of her simply ceasing. That her love of peppermint might go unknown to all people of the world—her end would mean nothing to some, the world would not stop being the world if Genevieve Trevelyan died today. And forget Corypheus and all the destruction he would bring without her to act as the breakwater—stopped or not stopped, Blackwall’s world lived and died on the continued existence of the Genevieve Trevelyan.

He did not cry, but his heart felt so squeezed he thought it might fly out of his chest.

Suddenly full, he thanked Belinda, who insisted he take the bread and cheese with him, and went back to the barn. Blackwall removed his armor piece by piece and left it all on the floor. He would worry about it later. For now he just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep. And he did, but not before taking the handkerchief Genevieve had given him only a day ago and pressing it to his lips. He let the scent of her wash over him and carry him off into dreams.

XXXX

He heard the sound of someone coming up the stairs but paid little attention to it. He was stiff again; his head ached almost as much as his heart did. Blackwall rolled onto his side and hoped to loosen his joints and go back to sleep.

“Come on Hero,” Varric gave him a nudge.

“Is everyone opposed to letting me sleep?” Blackwall grumbled. If it was another traitor they were after he was going to beat the bastard senseless.

“This is important,” Varric insisted, giving him another push. “She’s awake and asking for you,”

That got his attention. “What?”

“They broke her fever,” Varric explained. “She’s lucid, but groggy. She insists on seeing you.”

Blackwall jumped up, dumping his sleeping furs on Varric. The dwarf shoved them off and sighed as Blackwall pulled off his filthy tunic and threw on a clean one—or rather, the cleanest one he had. With Varric hustling behind him, Blackwall ran up the steps to the main hall. And he didn’t slow down until he got to her door.

All eyes were on him when he entered, but he hardly noticed them. Genevieve was propped against half a dozen pillows and had blankets of all kinds piled on top of her. He went to her side, kneeled, and took her hand in his. Her skin was cold and clammy, her face flushed, but the rest of her was pale. Even her eyes seemed dull, but when she recognized him they brightened.

“My knight,” she whispered. It must have been all she could manage. He brought her hand to his lips. “I am so happy to see you,”

“I’m supposed to say that, my lady.” He muttered into her palm, he could tell she was trying to make her fingers move, but she couldn’t get them to work properly.

“I can’t move,” she said.

“Yes, dear,” Vivienne said quietly from the corner. “The poison paralyzed you; it will leave your system soon.”

“Oh right, someone told me that already,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t seem to remember anything, everything is…foggy,”

“It’s alright little bird, you don’t have to remember,” Blackwall smoothed her hair. She closed her eyes as he did it again and he thought that maybe she had gone to sleep until she looked up at him from droopy lids.

“You got him right? I hit him with ice before he shot me, then I couldn’t reach the magic anymore.” Her voice was terribly hoarse.

“I chased him down, but the Seeker tackled him.” Blackwall told her, he kept his tone low; unsure if a loud voice might hurt her ears. “And the man who shot you had friends, we caught them too.”

“Good, I don’t want them to hurt anyone else.” She closed her eyes again and took a shallow breath. “Will you stay with me?”

“If you want that,”

“I do. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be alone, everyone is here,” He told her.

“I know, but I always feel safer when you’re near.”

“Then I’ll stay, no one can keep me away from you, Genevieve.”

“I like it when you say my name; it sounds prettier when you say it.” She smiled weakly and then frowned when a jolt of pain shot through her.

“What’s wrong?” Blackwall demanded.

“It’s part of the poison,” Dorian answered. “We gave her a potion that will help her fight it off. We’re pretty sure this is a more concentrated form of the plague. They elfroot you brought back from the Hinterlands is what saved her.”

When the spasm passed she was shaking and her breath came with a hissing rattle in her lungs. Blackwall smoothed her hair again and kissed each of her fingers. She looked at him and very softly said; “I love you,”

“And I you, little bird.”

She frowned and her eyes narrowed; “I need to talk to Cassandra,”

“I am here, Inquisitor,” Cassandra stepped forward. Blackwall got up to let the Seeker sit on the bedside, but he felt Genevieve’s weak hand curl around his.

“Stay,” she whispered. And he could deny her nothing, so Cassandra sat on the other side.

Genevieve looked at the Seeker with soft, pleading eyes; “Cassandra, I know we don’t always get along but you need to know that I love you, you’re my sister and I love you.” She wet her dry lips. “You’ll tell everyone that, that I love them, right?”

“They already know,” Cassandra muttered and there was a mummer in the background as the inner circle quietly agreed.

“I just need them to know, because I don’t know if this is the last time I get to speak to you,” Cassandra was about to protest when Genevieve stopped her. “I can’t remember much, but I remember hearing you all yell over me—I know what it is,” She looked up at the canopy and listed off a number of herbs; “black lotus and dragon nettle, and some others. It’s a miracle it didn’t kill me right away.”

Cassandra took her hand. “You’re going to be fine,” but her voice cracked. Blackwall could see tears forming in her eyes.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Genevieve continued. “If I die, I need you to be the leader. Okay? Cullen could do it too, but I worry about him sometimes—the withdrawals hurt him and he carries so much with him. I think he takes on too much, so you’ll have to do. Blackwall, you heard that right?”

“I did.” He pressed her palm to his face. “But you’re not going to die, I won’t let you.”

“I already survived death once, I don’t know if the Maker gives third chances,” She sounded so calm that it bit Blackwall to the bone. “You’ll pray for me too, right?”

“I’ve always prayed for you, Inquisitor.” Cassandra was a hard woman, but she did not stop the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“And I have something else I have to tell you. Please, you have to promise not to blame Blackwall. I did this and it was my own choice, not his.” She stopped for a moment to suck in a nervous, thin breath. “And when he found out I asked him not to tell anyone—he’s kept his word because he’s a good man even though you can’t see it.” Another shallow breath. “To find him, I used lyrium to do a fadewalk. The anchor helped but I needed more power. I started taking the tonic to help me; I was down to twelve-percent lyrium last time I took a draft.”

Cassandra nodded and whispered; “I see,”

“I know I shouldn’t have done it but I was scared. I thought he had gone on his Calling, I wanted to help him I—”

“It’s alright,” Blackwall soothed her.

“I understand, Inquisitor.” Cassandra said, and by the look on her face, Blackwall was certain that she truly did understand. “But right now you need to focus on getting better. The First Enchanter would like you to take another potion and a sleeping draught. Will you?”

“Yes,” Genevieve could not nod. “Blackwall, you’ll stay won’t you?”

Blackwall nodded. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

Vivienne handed Cassandra a deep purple potion. She tipped the vial and helped Genevieve to take it. She was asleep only moments after taking the sleeping draught. Blackwall held her hand and made a comforting circle over the top of it until he was certain she was out.

The others had congregated into a tight circle at the other side of the room. He could hear them whispering about him, about her lyrium use. To his surprise he heard Cassandra go to the door and order Ser Brandon to bring up a cot for him.

While they talked, Cole came over and stood by Blackwall. “She feels better when you’re near.”

“Really?” Blackwall put her hand down and stood up.

“Yes, the others make her feel safe, but you make her feel protected.” The boy reached down and nervously touched her hand. “She couldn’t speak it, but I know why she wants you here. Not right, not good, _not here_ —if they can reach me here what else can they do?”

Cullen was speaking when Blackwall joined the conversation. “I think now we should gather the Inquisition and tell them what’s happened. I’ve told my captains the basics, but that’s it.”

“And we must inform the guests,” Josephine added.

“Some of us haven’t eaten or slept either,” Dorian said rubbing his chin. It was unusual to see him without his face shaved and his mustache trimmed ever so neatly.

“We could all use some rest,” Varric agreed. “And with Blackwall here we can all take a break.” There was agreement and in a few moments Blackwall found himself alone.

“Aren’t you going to go get something to eat?” Blackwall asked Cole as the boy sat down in one of the plush chairs by the fireplace.

“I don’t eat,” he answered.

“Of course you don’t.” Blackwall sighed. He picked up a chair and carried it over to Genevieve’s bedside. He wasn’t the kind of man who read so he asked Cole to go down to the barn and bring him some of his carving tools. The lad seemed happy to oblige and returned with an armful of tools and blocks of wood.

“Will you teach me?” Cole asked, dragging his chair over to where Blackwall sat in vigil.

Blackwall nodded. “I suppose I can,” he showed him how to carve a simple daisy relief into a block. The lad turned out to be a natural and soon they had a large pile of wood shavings on the floor.

When a servant brought them lunch, Blackwall asked for some paint and a broom. Ser Brandon came up with his cot and a broom soon after and a different servant brought him a few pots of paint.

Blackwall swept the wood shaving into the hearth while Cole told the sleeping Inquisitor a story about his friend Rhys. With the floor clean, Blackwall threw an old cloth over Genevieve’s desk and set about painting a few of his toy soldiers. The green wasn’t exactly right, but he knew the children wouldn’t care what color they were painted.

He set the toys on the mantle to dry. As he cleaned up the desk he knocked on the many books she’d stacked up on the edge. This one was leather bound and stamped with the Inquisition’s symbol. It was one of her press books. He picked it up and gently flipped through it; dried plant specimens had been gently pressed between two sheets of paper; each page was delicately marked with the name, date, and location.

_Common Elfroot, Winter, Hinterlands. Witherstalk, Winter, Hinterlands; Crystal Grace, Bird Cherry, Dog Violet from Blackwall._ He paused and read it over again; _Dog Violet from Blackwall._ He ran a gentle finger over the paper; he couldn’t remember giving her this particular flower. He turned a few more pages and found more flowers marked “from Blackwall.”

_Prim Rose, Golden Yarrow, Wine Cup, Yellow Star, Wild Rose, Red Poppy;_ all of them marked at the bottom of the page with the phrase; “from Blackwall.” He turned all the way to the last page she had worked on and found the little yellow flower he had given her when they were in the Emerald Graves.

_She kept them all;_ he fell into her desk chair. Why would she bother keeping them? Some of these were weeds—he was certain--some of the even poisonous. He closed the book and set it back on the stack it had fallen from. He looked over the bed; Cole was smoothing Genevieve’s hair and trying to sing one of her songs. _She’s remarkable_ , he almost laughed, _to keep each one like some precious gift when I meant only to make her smile for a moment._

XXXX

Genevieve’s brother and mother came to see her when she woke up the next morning. They prayed with her, Fredrick reminisced about a cheese roll competition from their youth, and her mother helped her to eat some broth. Blackwall watched them talk about simple things; like the weather and her mother had visited the garden and complimented her work.

“I planted Crystal Grace a few weeks ago, they should come in soon,” Genevieve told her.

“I’m sure they’ll be lovely.” Her mother smiled.

Blackwall went out onto the balcony so that they could speak in private but he would be within earshot. Fredrick followed him out on slow but determined feet.

“I must say,” Fredrick clasped his hands behind his back. “My sister is quite taken with you,”

“You noticed.” Blackwall chuckled. He didn’t care if there were rumors anymore.

“Hard not to. She could hardly keep her eyes off you during your joust.” He leaned against the railing the same way Genevieve sometimes did. Blackwall wondered if it was a family trait that made the Trevelyan clan naturally gravitate to walls. “I must—it isn’t my business, we’ve just started reacquainting, but I am her brother.”

Blackwall frowned, it was fine that Genevieve’s brother wanted to rebuild his relationship with her, but he was far from offering criticism and advice about them. “What do you mean?” he grumbled.

“She is…younger.” This was a conversation that Blackwall and Genevieve had had long ago. It was not something he was going to talk to her brother about.

“That’s something you may want to take up with her.” Blackwall grunted.

He could remember the conversation to the very last letter. It had been a last ditch effort to convince her to leave him be, to find another man worthy of her affections. But she had simply shook her head and told him that if his age was of little concern. “My parents,” she had said. “Are twelve years apart. Your argument is irrelevant.”

“More than that,” Blackwall gave Fredrick a vexed glare. “It’s between us, though I’m sure she’d be more than willing to argue with you, if you’d like.”

Fredrick sighed. “I don’t want to argue with anyone,” he insisted. “I just…think that Genevieve is the kind of girl with her head in the clouds.”

“She seems to run the Inquisition just fine.” Blackwall was taken aback, no one would dare say that to her face or to anyone in her tight knit circle. “And the last time you knew her she was eight years old. You don’t get to make a brother’s judgments on the people she associates with.”

“And how old were you when she was eight? Seventeen? _Eighteen?”_

“I see how it is,” Blackwall growled, now he was angry. Fredrick was her blood, but he hardly counted as family. “It’s alright if a noble marries a younger lass, but if an old warrior and a mage decide they want to be together you suddenly disgusted.”

“I’m not trying to insinuate that what you any my sister have is…disgusting. I am her brother; it’s my job to look out for her.” He tented his fingers and fixed Blackwall with a look that claimed he thought himself the more logical party.

“She’s a grown woman, she can do that herself. I’ve seen her fight monsters twice your size, face down demons—look evil in the eye. She doesn’t need _you_ to look out for her.” Blackwall spat. Genevieve Trevelyan didn’t need anyone to watch out for her. She had people who cared about her, people who watched her back, but no one ever looked at her and thought _yeah, that girl needs to be looked after._ “She faced down Corypheus and his dragon by herself, survived an avalanche, she’s saved this world a hundred times and she’ll save it a hundred times more.”

Fredrick stepped away from the railing, unsure of what anger he’d woken. “I didn’t mean—”

“No one ever means it, and I’ve been guilty of it myself,” Blackwall stepped towards the boy, Fredrick back up. “But she’s put red Templars down and dueled blood mages. A Templar broke her hand once and she barely flinched. And a man comes in here to kill her and the first thing she worries about is her people—so _boy_ , when you’ve done half the things she’s done, then maybe you can come up here and give her advice on how to live, until then, _keep your fool mouth shut_.”

And he probably would have gone on, if not for Genevieve calling him. He was back in her room and at her bedside in seconds. “Are you playing nice?” She asked him.

“Just regaling your brother with tales of our exploits.” Blackwall smiled and took her hand. She felt a little stronger today. “I haven’t gotten to the part where we fought a dragon yet.”

“A dragon?” Her mother sounded shocked.

“It wasn’t a very big dragon,” Genevieve said her voice strained. “Besides, Blackwall made the killing blow, I wasn’t anywhere near it.” It was a lie of course, but he wasn’t going to worry her mother over details.

“Are you in pain, little bird?” Blackwall asked when he saw a spasm shoot through her.

“A little,” she said, she tried to shift in her bed, but the lingering paralysis made her limbs stiff and heavy.

“You should rest then,” her mother cooed. “We won’t be leaving for another week,”

Genevieve nodded slowly. “Alright,” both her mother and her brother kissed her before taking their leave.

“Do you need some lyrium tonic?” Blackwall asked. Solas had brought her a new batch of potions.

“Yes,” she whispered. “They’re louder because they know I’m weak, I have to keep my mana up.”

“Who’s louder?” He uncorked the lyrium and helped her take it.

“Demons,” she said it as if it was obvious. “They think I’m easy prey now, but I won’t let them have me. I promise.”

Blackwall reached over and touched her forehead, she didn’t feel overly warm. “Should I get Solas?” he asked.

She looked at him, confused for a moment and then realized that it was he who was confused; “Blackwall, I’m a mage,” she explained. “I may have passed my harrowing but that doesn’t mean demons just stop trying to tempt me.”

“I thought the Harrowing was supposed to protect you,” he really didn’t know much about magic.

“No, it just proves you can resist.” She clarified and tried to sit up but couldn’t. He helped her position herself and gave her the tonic. “They used to whisper things, and they got louder when I got the mark, and even louder when I was made Inquisitor.”

“Do you need help?” he asked, only slightly panicked.

“It’s not exactly something you can get help with,” a faint smirk came across her face. “I just ignore most of them; it’s easier to do that when you’re around.”

Blackwall caressed her cheek and she kissed his palm. “I don’t mind you taking care of me,” she smirked.

“And I don’t mind doing it,” He gave her the other potion mixed with sleeping draft. She fell asleep half an hour later, still clutching his hand.

XXXX

Genevieve grew stronger as the week wore on. Blackwall made a small table for her so that she could eat without help and read if she liked. Solas, Dorian, and Vivienne agreed that she didn’t need the sleeping draught unless she couldn’t get any rest, but she still had to take the poison counteractive four times a day.

Now that she wasn’t sleeping so much she had plenty of visitors. Sera came with cookies and stories about Red Jenny, Mother Giselle came to her bedside every day to pray, Cullen even came up and played a few games of chess with her before returning to his duties. When they were alone Blackwall whittled while she read; it reminded him of their times in the barn, when they sat in silence enjoying the other’s presence.

In the morning Cassandra entered with a stack of books under her arm. The Seeker looked stressed but Blackwall could see that she was rested. She set the books on the nightstand and Genevieve looked up from her breakfast.

“Good Morning, Cass,” she smiled.

“Are you feeling better, Inquisitor?” the seeker asked, shyly.

“I feel like a dragon stepped on me,” Genevieve answered, Blackwall smirked. Anyone who asked her how she was feeling got at that answer. “But I think I’ll live, Vivienne and one of the healers said I should be able to get on my feet next week. Until then though, bed and broth.”

“We need you strong,” Cassandra sat on the bed and smoothed Genevieve’s hair.

“You say that,” Genevieve sighed, “but you’re not the one who has to stay in bed and isn’t allowed to eat actual food.” Blackwall saw the hint of a smile come to the Seeker’s face and she smoothed Genevieve’s hair again. “Apparently my poisoning has brought out the motherly side of my Inner Circle. An hour doesn’t go by that someone doesn’t pet me.”

Cassandra laughed and petted her again for good measure. “Well, you are very short, Inquisitor, and short things are often pet.”

“Oh yes, make fun of the sick girl, she can’t do anything back.” She took a spoonful of broth and reached over for one of the books Cassandra brought her. It was a thin volume, very unlike the usual tomes Genevieve pored over. “So, what did you bring me?”

“I know you prefer herbariums and histories, but I thought you might appreciate a little change.”

Genevieve made a melodramatic gasp as she examined the cover of the book. “Cassandra, _Carmenum Di Amatus_?”

“The very one,” Cassandra answered, the seeker smiled impishly. “I am pretty sure Dorian left it in my quarters on purpose—to rile me perhaps, but—”

“You’re secretly romantic,” Genevieve flipped through the book. “Thank you, I’ve wanted to read it since Dorian told me about it.”

“The others are poetry as well, and an epic Varric suggested. I wanted you to have something else to do,”

“Thank you Cassandra, I’ll enjoy each one, I’m sure.” She closed her book and set it back on the pile.

“Good, then if you will excuse me, I must return to my duties.” Cassandra rose and looked at Blackwall. “May I speak with you?”

“Of course, seeker,” Blackwall got up and followed her to the balcony; he looked at Genevieve and smiled, if only to reassure her when he closed the door.

Cassandra sighed and got right to it; “I want you to know that I may not agree with the Inquisitor, but I respect her decision. If you are truly in love, than that is the end of it.” Blackwall nodded and she continued. “If, _Maker forbid_ , anything happen to her, you should know that I will not send you away or punish you where I think she should have. She wants you here with her, and if that is her wish, I will honor it.”

“Thank you, Seeker.”

“I am still angry with you and I still think of your actions were reprehensible. Don’t think you’ve won back my respect.”

“Of course,” Blackwall frowned. He had hoped they could build a bridge, but he would take her tolerance over her ire.

“That is all I have to say,” Cassandra headed for the door, but turned back at the last second. “That and…be good to her, she is more than you deserve.” She did not wait for his response.

XXXX

It was long past midnight when Blackwall heard her cry out. He was up in an instant. It was almost an unnatural noise, primal—the sound of someone in agony. The fire had died swallowing the whole room in darkness and with the curtains pulled closed there was no moonlight. He forced himself to stop a moment and light a candle after tripping over his cot.

“Genevieve,” he whispered setting the candle on the nightstand and sitting down beside her. She was writhing, the blankets thrown off and tangled around her legs. Her face was pulled up in a grimace, her eyes shut tight as if she was trying desperately not to see something. “Genevieve wake up, it’s a dream,” he touched her forehead. Her skin was burning hot.

“Oh no, little bird,” he scooped her up in his arms, trying to coax her out of her slumber. “I’m here, you’re safe.” Her skin was slick with sweat and she radiated heat. He had no choice. Gently he set her back on the bed and ran to the door.

Ser Brandon was on watch, he looked up sleepily when Blackwall threw the door open. “She’s feverish again,” the ex-Templar was on his feet but when he opened the other door, Cole was standing on the other side with Dorian, Vivienne, and Solas.

“It’s a demon,” the boy said as they pushed past Brandon and Blackwall.

“A demon?” Blackwall followed the mages into the room. Vivienne held up her hand and the fireplace lit up again. Solas threw open the curtains letting the moonlight cascade into the room.

Dorian sat on the bed and placed his hand on Genevieve’s forehead. “She’s burning,” he said.

“It’s a demon!” Cole cried.

Vivienne gave Genevieve a gentle shake, then a harder one. “It’s a fever,” she said.

Solas shook his head. “I think Cole is right,”

“She’s not possessed is she?” Blackwall demanded, he could not stand the idea that she had succumbed to a demon, she was so strong. She could cull dragons, strike fear with the sound of her voice. A demon could not have her; he would let it have her.

“No,” Cole answered, he sounded scared. “It’s trying, but she’s fighting, she needs help.” He looked at Blackwall with desperate eyes. “I tied to go to her, but I couldn’t find her.”

“Are you certain, Solas?” Dorian asked, Blackwall had never seen the Magister look so worried.

“Yes.”

“Then someone has to go in,” Vivienne started lighting candles. “We’ll need more mages and Templars. Lyrium too.”

“I’ll get Cullen,” Dorian said and was out the door.

“And someone will have to enter the Fade,” Solas said, he was calm and focused as always. “I believe I should—”

“No,” Vivienne barked. “This is a delicate matter, I will.”

“I have more experience with the Fade and spirits,” Solas argued.

“And you think I don’t? I am a First Enchanter, Court Magician to the Empress herself.”

“A purveyor of parlor tricks,”

Blackwall could not believe that they were arguing over something as unimportant as “who gets to kill the demon” when their leader was suffering. All of these people so quick to argue and think things over and so slow to action. It made him sick and he knew what he had to do.

“Can you send me?” he asked, they stopped their quarrelling to look him over. “Can I go into the Fade and fight this…thing?”

Cole stepped forward. “I’ll help him,”

“He and the Inquisitor are close,” Solas noted. “It could work. We’ll need a lot of power to render him conscious.”

“I suppose no one can argue that,” Vivienne viewed Blackwall with a look of cold disdain. “You’ll be facing a demon, you know.”

“I’ll help him!” Cole exclaimed, the lad was determined to get the First Enchanter to acknowledge him.

“I’ll fight and win any battle for her,” Blackwall growled. He had no fear save the idea that his little bird might become an abomination. No demon scared him more than that thought could. “And Cole will be with me,”

“Then I suppose it’s settled.”

 


	19. Chapter XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, alright, here we go. 
> 
> Thanks you guys, and enc0432 because you’re my best friend, and I love you.

**Chapter XIX**

Fiona selected fifteen mages and Ser Marbrand picked five Templars. The Inquisitor’s quarters were packed with people and a horrible damp heat filled the room. Blackwall didn’t understand a thing that was happening—there was a bowl on the desk filled with pure lyrium, the mages aligned themselves in a half circle around the bed, some were chanting, others silent and watching. 

The Lady Morrigan brought the bowl of lyrium to the center of the room and set in on a little metal stand. Once in place the mages started up a chant. At the back of the room, Cullen, Josephine, Leliana, and Cassandra watched with grim expressions.

Blackwall sat on his cot watching it all unfold. Cole was nowhere to be seen but he knew the boy wouldn’t leave him alone in the Fade.

Vivienne looked down at Blackwall and asked; “Are you ready, dear?”

“Let’s get it done,” Blackwall answered. He would have been nervous if he wasn’t so afraid for Genevieve’s life. This had to be done.

“Demons twist the Fade to their own ends, believe nothing.” She placed her hand on his head and Blackwall felt the tangled web of sleep grab hold of him.

The dark was absolute and the air was hot and dry. Blackwall breathed and he could smell the scent of fire, of burning flesh. Wood cracked and popped. He could feel the heat of fire on his face, felt stone under his feet. It felt wrong, unnatural—like it might change at any second. At Adamant they had entered the Fade, but they had done that with their physical bodies; now he felt different, like his very being was unstable and he might change at any moment.

With great effort, he opened his eyes and found himself standing at the center of Skyhold’s bridge. But it wasn’t Skyhold. It was a twisted copy of the castle. Behind him, where mountains would have closed in the valley there was nothing but empty space awash in sickly green and yellow hues. In the distance he saw towers warped like spikes and shadowed deep black.

“I found you,” Cole appeared, his daggers were strapped to his back. He carried a longsword and a plain wooden shield. “Here, you’ll need these,”

Blackwall strapped the shield onto his arm and took the sword. “Do you know the way?” his voice echoed.

“No.” Cole answered.

Blackwall scratched his head and decided the only way was to go in. He could see the keep rising in pale mist, fires flickered around them. The gate was swallowed in the fog. Blackwall did not hesitate and plunged into the haze, Cole on his heels.

It was not mist that shrouded the gate, but smoke. “Stay close,” Blackwall told Cole, the boy nodded. They ventured deeper into the smog, the stench of burning corpses was almost overwhelming.

Within the smoke Blackwall came face to face with horrors only imagined in the Fade. Corpses fused with the walls themselves, their faces set in a mask of terror. Bodies hanging from the sky seemingly of their own volition, the dead piled up in smoking pyres. Unseen flies buzzed around the heaps and tickled at Blackwall’s face.

It felt like they had wandered for an eternity when the smoke cleared and they found themselves in the yard. Here skeletal bodies rose from the ground like a gruesome garden. Some had their hands clasped together invoking prayer, others clinging to each other; all of their mouths were agape in a silent, wretched cry.

The keep itself was covered in pulsing veins of lyrium. Where the Inquisition banners once hung, deep red flags lacking in any design now flew, and the ornate glass windows featured scenes of terror. Some of the towers seemed detached from the castle and even the stair to the main hall was missing.

“We have to get in there,” Blackwall said leading to where he thought the barn would be. But as they approached it, the barn detached from the ground and floated off to join the towers. “What the—”

“The Fade always changes,” Cole told him as they watched it bob up and down in the air. As he spoke, where the barn had been a door appeared in the great stone wall.

“Will that door take us in?” Blackwall asked.

“Maybe,” Cole answered. “Or it could lead us out or somewhere else. The demon created this place.”

“That isn’t much of an answer.” He grumbled then stepped forth and pulled the door open. A pile of bones spilled forth from the shadow and the outpour did not stop until Blackwall slammed the door shut. At the sound of the door closing, the bones began to vibrate and then came together all at once.

Blackwall jumped back as the bones morphed into eight monstrous creatures, some with two skulls, other missing them, and even one with six arms. He knew they were going to attack before they did, so he struck the nearest one with his sword. The bones snapped easily, but even after being broken into pieces the unbroken bones fused together again. He struck again and then bashed his shield against the one with two skulls. Cole snuck up behind the two headed one and hit it with a fury of quick stabs. Blackwall stepped on what remained of it before charging the six armed one and smashing it against the wall.

A skeleton grabbed Blackwall’s shield while the six handed one scratched at his face. Blackwall threw the other one off balance and then crushed the six handed creature up against the wall until the bones turned to powder.

When the fight was all done Blackwall crushed any unbroken bones under foot. “This place is…not normal.”

“It’s the Fade, there is no normal here,” Cole said as if it was obvious. He then pointed to the keep where a door now stood open to them. “That way,”

Tentatively, with sword and shield raised, Blackwall stepped into the dark entryway. As soon as both he and Cole had entered, the door slammed shut and the room lit up by unseen torches. A woman’s voice, deep and sinister echoed through the castle; “And what have we here? Compassion? And…and a mortal—oh, I know you, you’re Blackwall.”

“Don’t listen to her!” Cole cried out. “She’s a liar!”

“Compassion dares call me a liar? I never lie. I only show you want you already know deep down inside.”

“You have no power over me demon; I’ve come to kill you!” Blackwall declared.

The voice laughed manically, as if the very thought of Blackwall slaying it was the most amusing thing in all existence. “Kill me?” it croaked, “we’ll see…the more time you spend in here, the more I learn about you.” The voice laughed and then disappeared altogether.

Blackwall looked at Cole and motioned for them to continue. The faster they found the demon, the better.

They room they were in looked like the kitchens, almost normal save for the skulls and candles set across the tables like gruesome centerpieces. Blackwall pushed open the door and found the next room almost identical to the last except for a pair of hovering greenish-yellow wraiths. One spoke with Belinda’s voice.

“The poor dear was beside herself,” the wraith hovered by the fireplace as if it was stirring a pot. “I’ve never seen her so upset.”

“It’s a wonder,” the other wraith answered. “She seemed to love him, I can’t believe he ran.”

Blackwall entered with Cole behind him, the wraith’s paid them no heed so he went to the next door. This door led them to a long hallway; a few ghosts hovered at the center. “It was cowardly,” one of the wraiths said.

“Not so much cowardly as is was stupid.” Another said. “if I had the chance to spread the Inquisitor’s legs I would never leave,” there was agreement and laughter.

Before Blackwall could charge them, Cole grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t listen to them,” he said. Blackwall forced himself to continue on to the next door. This time it led them to the tavern where more specters sat around a table.

“Maybe you should take a crack at her, chief,” it sounded like one of the chargers.

Iron Bull’s voice rose in laughter. “I don’t think she’s ready, I mean Blackwall just took off, she needs a little time to grieve.” He laughed again. “Spent most of her life shut in by Templars, if she has kink, _I’ll find it._ ”

Cole gave Blackwall a push when he stopped. Blackwall looked at him. “Did this happen? Is this a memory?”

“No, stop listening!” Cole yelled, he was starting to sound frustrated. He gave Blackwall a few hard shoves. “It’s a remorse demon! It’s doing it on purpose! It isn’t real!”

As if called, the demon’s voice echoed through the room. “Oh, but it is real. As real as the thoughts that run through your head. And the deeper you enter my domain, the more I learn.” The wraiths turned to them and attacked, their voices changed into terrible shrieks.

The ghost scratched at them with needle claws that left invisible gouges of ice across skin. Blackwall swung his blade through the first wraith and it dissipated. Another flung a ball of lightning at him but Blackwall blocked with his shield then swatted the wraith away. Cole stood at his back, slicing through the air, stopping the ghosts with quick efficiency. Blackwall dispatched the final specter and led Cole through to the next door.

It was not really a room, although there was a ceiling. The floor was grass and dirt, trees burned in the corners—the place smelled of smoke and death. Blackwall could taste the metallic tang of blood in the air. There was no door in sight, so they were forced to navigate the burning forest. The corpses of mages and Templars littered the ground, some bore the strange markings of blood magic and others wore wounds only demons could produce.

“Quiet,” Blackwall whispered to Cole, though the lad hardly had to be told.

Somewhere in the woods before them someone was chanting a spell. They eased forward. A man in Templar armor had been crucified against a pine tree. Blackwall knew who it was right away; Derrek Trevelyan, the man who died to save his sister. Below the corpse, a mage was chanting up to the sky and the door appeared behind the trees.

Derrek’s body began to glow red and before Blackwall could strike, the Templar pulled itself down, reborn an abomination. The mage laughed and spotted Blackwall and Cole. He launched a spell at them and the abomination lunged.

“Get the mage!” Blackwall roared at Cole. The abomination, ugly and twisted like a red Templar, tackled Blackwall to the ground, his shield the only thing between it and its snapping jaws.

The abomination bore down on him, almost crushing his ribs. Blackwall smacked the flat of his blade against it, but the beast paid it little mind and tried to grapple his arm. The monster roared, spewing blood and spittle all over Blackwall. Blackwall slammed his fist into the creature’s temple, but its helm had fused to its head. So Blackwall turned his blade and mashed the pommel against it.

Momentarily stunned, Blackwall shoved the demon away and sliced down with his sword, taking the demon’s arm off at the elbow. It screamed in anger and pulled itself up to charge again. This time Blackwall was ready for it. He braced himself and when the abomination was upon him he slammed his shield against it once, twice, a third time, sending the beast to the ground. Blackwall did not hesitate and took the monster’s head off.

Blackwall turned to find Cole and the mage. Cole appeared out of the smoke, his daggers dripping blood.

“Is this Genevieve’s memory?” Blackwall asked.

Cole shook his head but didn’t say anything. The Fade business was starting to really grate on Blackwall. He had to find that demon and end it. Was it tormenting her with visions like these? Blackwall rarely questioned Genevieve about her brother; it was a sensitive subject for her. Something she regretted over everything else.

“Come on,” Blackwall heaved the door open.

They were in the barn; the air was cool and sweet, wood smoke drifted up from the fire pit below. He knew what night it was before he even heard the first sounds of pleasure from the pile of hay. A chuckle from him, a giggle from her, a soft whisper against skin. But when his ghostly-self sat up it was not Blackwall, who held Genevieve against him, but the beardless, younger Thom Rainer.

Rainer locked eyes with Blackwall and laughed, kissing Genevieve and pulling her against him. His hand painted blood across the smooth, pale skin of her back, smeared it into her hair, her face, and wherever his hands touched. And in climax the name she spoke sent his heart racing with heartbreak; “Oh, Thom.”

Blackwall yanked the door open again and shoved Cole through it. A sickness coiled in his stomach. He backed against the door and fell to the ground. He put his hands on his head and tried to think of something else. He was not that man any more— _he was not_. Genevieve did not love that man. She loved Blackwall, the man he was now.

“We have to keep going.” Cole yelled. “We can’t go back!”

“That was not for your eyes, boy,” Blackwall growled, still reeling from what he’d seen. Bloody hands against such perfect skin, it was monstrous…a _sin_.

“Remorse is doing it on purpose.” Cole explained angrily. “She’s trying to break you; she wants you to give up,”

“You can’t ask me to see that again,” Blackwall growled, his voice broke midsentence.

“You’re not Rainer!” Blackwall had never seen the lad so frustrated before. It was as if he was scared that they wouldn’t make it in time. “You killed him!”

Blackwall knew the boy spoke the truth, knew he had to get up—for her—this was not for him. This was for his Inquisitor, his leader, his redeemer, his _little bird_. He picked up his sword and got up.

“You killed Thom Rainer,” Cole had told him those words before. If anything, Cole believed in his basic goodness. He would not let the boy down. He would _not_ let Genevieve down. Gripping his sword, Blackwall pushed open the door and marched through it, he ignored the cried of his old name, the moans, all of it. He was not Thom Rainer and the Inquisitor did not love that man.

Genevieve’s specter screeched and disappeared when Blackwall pulled them part. He raised his sword, looked at Rainer and thrust the sword into the ghost’s belly. “You’re a dead man,” Blackwall growled. “Stay dead, it’s where you belong.” He pulled his blade free and the world shifted, opening a door at the foot of the stairs.

He left Thom Rainer’s corpse in the hay. _Let him bleed out and rot_ , Blackwall thought as he and Cole stepped through the next door. This time the room was packed with people, mages in robes and Templars in armor. Each group stood on opposite ends of the room surrounded by Qunari mercenaries meant to keep them from fighting. Men and woman dressed in Chantry robes moved about them, incense and chanting filled the empty space.

It was the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The people in the crowd could not see him and when he should have crashed into them, they simple moved through him like specters. But he knew she had to be here. He found her near the front of the hall. She stood with a Tranquil woman close to the dais where an empty throne awaited the Divine. For some reason he could not hear, Genevieve broke away from the group and started quickly down the hallway.

“Genevieve!” he cried and she stopped. He thought—had hoped that she heard him. But she had stopped at double set of door. He knew the story, had seen it in the Fade with her. But this was different, more desperate, as if she knew what was going to happen but could do nothing to stop it.

“What’s going on here?” Genevieve asked.

“Kill the mage!”

Then she had the orb in her hands and the whole world went black.

They were in the hall again, nothing had changed. Not the position of the people, or the smell of incense and sound of the Chant. It was as if nothing had happened.

“What…” Blackwall looked at Cole, who was examining one of the Sisters.

Blackwall went through the crowds looking over the people. They all looked similar and yet they were all different but not so different that he could pick them out as separate people. He had never been to the Temple, but the facades looked blurry as if the details were faded away with time and other worries.

He was about to examine the throne when his ears popped and there was a flash. He heard the explosion and then he found himself standing with Cole right back at the beginning.

“Is this some kind of loop?” Blackwall asked, he did not expect Cole to answer and was not surprised when he didn’t. “We have to figure a way out of this,”

Blackwall rushed off to find Genevieve again; she was making her way to the hallway. “Genevieve!” he cried. “Genevieve, this isn’t real! You can’t change the past, what happened here was a tragedy but you had nothing to do with it.” She kept moving, completely oblivious to him. She opened the doors. “Stop Genevieve none of this is real!” Within seconds, the world went black.

He went after her again, certain it must have something to do with her. He tried to grab her but she passed through him like the other phantoms in the hall. And when she threw open the doors again, Blackwall braced himself. They would be trapped here, watching her suffer over and over.

Except that Cole ran into the room before the Divine could smack the ball away. The boy jumped up and jammed his dagger into the orb. The world morphed, the Temple seemed to dissipate and they were standing in forest just off a muddy road.

Blackwall knew where he was the moment he was there. He had hidden in this wood before. He had watched a carriage and a few mounted knights come up the road before crying out to his men and springing the trap. He could hear the sound of fighting already.

He could not bear this. Facing Rainer had been easy compared to watching his men slaughter children. He backed against a tree and hoped to drown out the sound of children crying.

Cole was by his side in an instant. “If you stop she’ll feed until there is nothing left,”

“Stop!” the demon’s voice rocked the forest. “Meddling spirit! _Be gone!_ ” wraiths began appearing around them.

“Blackwall would stand between Rainer and the carriage!” Cole shouted as the ghosts charged the boy and he disappeared. The last thing Blackwall heard from him was; “The Inquisitor can’t resist forever!”

Now he was alone forced to face this horrible regret or let Genevieve be possessed. He took a deep breath, then another. _Blackwall would stand between Rainer and the carriage_. And now he had his chance. If he did not, the woman he loved would be cut down by the men sworn to protect her. He could not fail her. Not again.

Blackwall jumped up and made a dash for the road slamming his sword against his shield in alarum. “Stop!” he cried, _“Stop!”_

The men surrounding the carriage held axes and sword high for all to see and Thom Rainer was standing over them, looking confident. It was a lie.

“Stop!” Blackwall roared, pointing his blade at Rainer. “That man is lying to you! He’s doing this for gold, not the good of his country! He’s a liar and a murdered.”

Rainer looked shocked for a moment and regained his composure; “He has no idea what he’s talking about, the Callier’s are traitors and must be dealt with!”

“The Empress would never order the slaughter of children!” Blackwall declared. “Can you not hear them crying?” The men hesitated for a moment, some even lowered their weapons.

“Don’t stop!” Rainer bellowed. “Any man who stops is a traitor too!” and he drew his sword.

Blackwall rushed forward to stand between Rainer and the carriage. “What’s done is done, I cannot go back, but you can stop this madness! You can walk away from this.” He didn’t care if this was a dream, he would stop Rainer. He was going to stand between that man and the carriage.

Rainer lifted his sword. “Out of my way!” and swung.

Blackwall expected the blade to hit him, but it didn’t. When he opened his eyes he was in the main hall of the keep, but it was dark and twisted. The windows let in a smattering of colored light against the black stones, candles floating in midair flickered wickedly. Bones and flowers stuck out from the stones in patterns reminiscent of the garden. The gazebo looked like a melted heap in the corner of the hall, the benches were made from fleshy bits of something Blackwall couldn’t make out, and the statue of Andraste from the chapel held a bowl of fountaining blood instead of the eternal flame. A warped representation of everything Genevieve was—faithful, noble, someone who loved the simple task of growing things.

“So, even without Compassion, you still broke my illusion?” Blackwall followed the voice towards the end of the hall. Sitting on her throne, quivering, covering herself with a barrier, was Genevieve. But it was what stood behind the throne that spoke.

He had never seen a demon like this before. It was a gangly thing with a short torso and abnormally long legs and arms. It was bald and had a mouth full of retched teeth and eyes the color of blood. But worst of all, when it moved its head it rotated around revealing an identical face on the back so it was always looking behind itself.

The demon tried to put a hand on Genevieve but it was stung by the barrier, it smiled showing off its overly large mouth and predatory teeth. “She has held out for so long,” the demon cooed. “But soon… _soon.”_

“I will never give in, demon,” Genevieve snapped and looked at Blackwall. “I will not fall for your tricks,” then she recited some bit of the Chant in a voice so broken, Blackwall felt his heart wrench with agony. She was not supposed to sound like that—she was supposed to be joyful—full of laughter and mirth. The sound that came from her lips was not right, he could not bear it. And it would have broken him if he didn’t have a job to do.  

The demon laughed. “Sing all you like, girl, there is no Maker to hear it.” Genevieve covered her ears and started chanting louder.

“Demon!” Blackwall roared, raising his sword and shield. “Let her go!”

Remorse laughed again and swooped down from the throne as if floating on air. “Blackwall…Blackwall…Thom Rainer” It recited. “I know all your little secrets...even before you entered my keep.” She placed another hand on Genevieve’s barrier and it dimmed. “She was privy to most of them…oh so many regrets, so many _delicious_ regrets. Between the two of you I will grow fat indeed. And in her body I will make many more regrets—she’s so strong, who knew so much power rested in someone so small.”

“You’ll have to kill me!” Blackwall charged. Remorse dodged the attack and struck back with yellow claws.

“She’s failed so many times, she says so herself. So many dead in her wake. So many dead in yours.” Remorse chuckled again and hid behind the throne again. “You make a perfect pair,”

“Stay away from her!” Blackwall held out his sword. “Face me, monster!”

It was not interested in listening. “Deep down inside he regrets loving you, you know.” She whispered to Genevieve.

“You lie, that’s what you do, you drag out misgivings and you twist them,” Genevieve snarled, Blackwall could see her struggling with the words, her barrier was weakening.

“Don’t listen Genevieve!” Blackwall cried. “I love you more than anything I would never—”

 _“Shut up!”_ She screamed and crushed the palms of her hands to her ears before she took up the Chant again. “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.” She was crying now, and it broke his heart.

“Little bird, I am not a trick!”

“Silence!” The demon jumped down from the dais and smacked Blackwall away. Blackwall hit the stone floor and cracked his head hard enough to see stars burst over his vision.

Blackwall forced himself back onto his feet, dizzy and suddenly tired. He tried to shake it off, but fell again. He caught the side of a pillar and leaned heavy against it. “Please, Genevieve, I came to help. Cole was with me too.” He voice felt slow and tight. Remorse cried out and stuck Blackwall, drawing blood across his face.

The demon twisted its neck around and opened its mouth. The cries of children—the Calliers children erupted from its gaping maw. “Can you hear them!” it screeched. “The children, begging for their lives! They were begging life from you!”

Blackwall swung his sword, making the demon back up. His rage cleared the stars and slowness from his mind. He looked at Genevieve, he had to make her understand. “The mages helped me to get here! I volunteered to help you!”

Remorse turned back to him, its mouth still wide open but the voices that came from it did not belong to it; “Love has blinded her.” Cassandra. “We cannot trust her judgment anymore, she let Blackwall free.” Cullen. “She has soiled the Inquisition’s reputation with frivolous feelings.” Josephine. “I will not support a group that does not value law.” “Tsk, letting that monster go.” “So that’s what the Inquisition is all about? Who cares so long as it make the Inquisitor happy? I thought she stood for something.”

But Blackwall refused to take his eyes off Genevieve. She had to understand, had to know that he was not a trick. “Come on, little bird,” he whispered. “Please.”

Finally, the demon was so close that Blackwall was forced to look away. He lashed at the demon, missed, and with one long arm it grabbed hold of his shield. It tried to yank it away from him. His arm ached as it tried to wrench the shield; it was going to pull his arm out of his socket. He tried to get the beast with his sword, but its arms were so long he could not reach it.

“Maker damn you,” Blackwall growled, muscles straining, his shirt ripping. His bones felt like brittle glass, his arm would break soon. And it would have if Genevieve had not pulled herself from her chair and struck the demon with a bolt of lightning. She shouted some unintelligible curse and fade-stepped, flittering to the other end of the hall.

With the demon petrified, Blackwall finally struck, cutting a gouge in its arm and rolling away to dig a gash in its leg. Genevieve hit the demon with a fire spell and Blackwall smelled the scent of burning flesh. He raised his sword and hacked one of the arms off. Remorse screeched in anger and lashed out with its other arm scoring a cut across Blackwall’s chest.

“Blackwall, down!” Genevieve cried and a rock came soaring through the air and smashed into the demon’s face. Remorse fell to the ground, stunned. Blackwall raised his blade to finish her but she slithered away so quickly that he could not stop his momentum and speared the ground.

Remorse hissed like a cornered animal. Blackwall pulled his sword from the crack in the stone and started forward. He would put an end to this beast. The world would be a better place without it. But before he could reach it, a wall of ice surrounded it, holding it in place. Genevieve raised her hand and more flames erupted over the demon’s body.

“Step back,” Genevieve order. He stopped, mindful of that tone. This was not his fight anymore. He stepped back, his eyes on the demon, expecting it to free itself but it was too busy trying to break the ice away with its one good arm.

“You always regret death,” the demon cried, desperation crawling across its features. “Every death—you get attacked by a dragon and you mourn the beast as if you were the monster.”

“I won’t regret this one,” Genevieve growled, she opened her arms wide and a symbol Blackwall could not understand appeared before her. The spell erupted into a barrage of energy and found their target in the demon, then Genevieve raised her hand and lightning struck to many time for Blackwall to count. The Remorse demon screeched its last.

As the Fade melted around them, Genevieve turned to Blackwall. He stepped forward; she smiled and reached out with her hand. “Thank you,” she said. She must have known it was really him because she kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered again. Blackwall reached down and picked one of the flowers from the floor and gently presented it to her. She took it and pressed the petals to her lips.

“Are you alright, my love?” Blackwall asked softly. The dark was melting into light; the heavy evil that had soaked into every inch of Blackwall’s skin was receding.

“I am now,” she leaned up and pressed her forehead to his. She kissed him, sweet and tender, as if they had all the time in the world. “Maker, I love you,” she muttered against his lips.

She released him and Blackwall felt a slight smile come to his face. “You are everything to me,” he told her. A light smirk found its way onto her lips and she gently pressed her hand to his forehead.

He woke up covered in sweat and surrounded by chanting mages. The Templars were up on their feet, their swords out. Blackwall pulled himself off the cot and tripped when his legs gave out. Someone reached out to help him, but he pushed them away and dragged himself to Genevieve’s side.

She was sitting up, head in her hands, her eyes blurry with confusion. But then she saw him and they reached for each other. Blackwall pulled himself up onto the bed and into her arms. They kissed then in front of everyone, reckless and passionate and heated. A kiss like never before. He savored it, lavished in it. It was bread to the starving, medicine to the ill. It spoke everything, reminded him that there was no one else for him, that the Maker put this woman on Thedas so that he might worship her.

He was not happy when it came an end. But the mages insisted on checking her over. And she wanted a bath and “proper food” and he needed to the essentials too. He would go back to her though; he’d entered the Fade after her, he could fight off a few guards to see her if he must.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue is next. Thanks for reading!


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting this far guys, I really mean it. You've put up with my fantasy fulfillment and all my other nonsense, seriously, thank you. 
> 
> And enc0432, you're my best friend; you put up with me when I babble on about criminology and neurobiology and theory and you read through this entire thing without batting an eye. You listened when I wasn’t sure about something and you nod your head in an agreeing manner when I complain about people. You're amazing, I love you pal. Not all who wander are lost.
> 
> All good things must come to an end.

**Chapter XX – Epilogue**

The Fade had not so easily left him. Blackwall spent three days wrapped in her arms, needing nothing but her gentle touch and sweet words whispered in his ear. It was all he _needed_ , to know that she was there, demon free, almost free of her sickness, and that she loved him. By the end of the week it was simply understood that it was _their_ room now. With the demon culled and the traitors caught the guests were allowed to take their leave. Josephine saw them all off, claiming that the Inquisitor was too ill to see them. It was actually her temper that was flaring up; she wasn’t happy about being cooped up for so long.

Robert de Blanc left some of his best Chevaliers as he had promised and the Trevelyan’s said their goodbyes. Genevieve’s older sister Lucille lived in Orlais with her husband and they wanted to see her before Bann Trevelyan passed. They left on better terms though, and Blackwall was glad to see a bridge slowly reforming in the family.

Blackwall left her in the morning to complete a few chores Josephine had asked of him, but now he returned with breakfast. Lemon poppy seed sticky buns slathered in frosting, a plate of bacon, four perfect hard-boiled eggs, and of course a pot of mint tea for her and watered ale for him.

She was in bed hunched over the little desk he had made her, hands stained in ink. She smiled when she saw him and then lit up at the sight of sticky buns. Quickly, she gathered up the papers and placed them on the nightstand, closed her bottle of ink, and wiped her hands on an old rag.

Blackwall set the tray down, kicked his boots off, and climbed into bed next to her. She reached over and kissed him. “This looks wonderful,” she murmured against him.

“Good,” he smiled as she helped herself to a sticky bun. “How are you feeling today?”

“Bored.” Genevieve sighed. “My Esteemed Advisors must think I’m still sick, they’ve given me busy work.” she reached over and picked up a piece of paper. “The refugees asked permission to begin building a village in the valley,”

“That seems worthy of the Inquisitor’s attention,” he peeled an egg and ate it in a few quick bites.

“Yes but, Josephine and I have a system. If she’s positive in my answer she answers for me, I’m not going to tell the refugees they _can’t_ build a village.” She licked frosting from her fingers. “What’s worse, they want to name it the Village of Genevieve,”

Blackwall laughed. “I think it’s a pretty name,”

“They seem very adamant about it,” she grumbled. “I’ve been trying to think of alternatives. New Haven, Justinia, the Village of Skyhold. I dread the very idea of looking at a map and seeing my name,”

Blackwall sighed. “I think you’re suggestions are fine,”

“Like I said, busy work.” she put the paper back and focused on breakfast for a few moments. “Do you think you could help me go down to the garden?”

“That depends, little bird, have you been given the okay?”

“Contrary to popular belief I am not made of glass,” she fell back against the pillows in a huff. “I spent most of my life locked up in the circle; I got to spend two hours every three days in the garden. You can’t give me all this freedom and then take it all away like this,”

Blackwall peeled another eggs and handed it to her. “Well, fresh air might do you a bit of good. And it’s just gardening.”

“Exactly,” she finished her egg and a few slices of bacon. He was glad to see that she had regained her appetite.

Blackwall cleared away breakfast and she threw the blankets off. She was still wearing her nightclothes. Slowly she got up and stretched. Blackwall got a chance to appreciate her lithe form, the slope of her shoulders, her shapely curves—a reminder that even though she was younger, she was still a woman.

“Oh Maker, just getting up feels good,” she groaned stretching her arms up.

Blackwall smiled and could not help himself. He came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and kissed her neck. She giggled light as a bell and turned in his arms to stand on tiptoes and kiss him. He tried to pull away, but she threw her arms around his neck to stop him, she deepened the kiss.

“I thought we were going to the garden?” Blackwall asked as he pressed his lips to her temple.

She threaded her fingers through his beard. “I have another idea,”

“Me too,” he picked her up and dropped her onto the bed. He sat down beside her, his fingers finding their way under her tunic. Just as her fingers found the buttons of his shirt someone stomped up the stairs, opened the door, and came up into the room.

“Inquisitor, we need—” Cullen stopped and coughed nervously. “I am…it’s…”

Genevieve sighed and sat up. “ _Cullen_. _Stanton. Rutherford.”_ The Commander visibly recoiled as she pronounced his name. “You’re already here, I hope it’s important.”

Cullen cleared his throat apprehensively, “Um, its—Leliana has finished interrogating the…we thought it you were feeling up to—they need to be dealt with, Inquisitor. We will need an official order.” The prisoners; it was time for judgment.

Genevieve nodded, suddenly all serious. “Let me bathe and dress,” she feathered a kiss across Blackwall’s lips. “I’m sorry,” She stood up, grabbed a piece of parchment and went to her desk. She dipped fine owl feather quill into a well of black ink and began scratching away at the paper.

“How’s this sound?” She held up he page and read aloud; “I, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan—you know the title—do hereby call under judgment—I left the next bit blank, Josephine can fill in their names—on this day the Twenty-Seventh day of Cassus, Dragon Nine: Forty-Three, for the crimes of undermining Inquisitorial Authority, attempting to assassinate the Inquisitor, for violating the expectations of their positions within the Inquisition, for traitorous acts including but not limited to willfully and viciously poisoning their compatriots in a sacred desecration of trust. May they find mercy in Maker’s grace.”

Cullen nodded. “Seems about right, Josephine may add to it.” Genevieve quickly signed the document, melted a little green wax at the bottom and pressed her signet ring to it.

“I’ll be down within the hour,”

“Inquisitor, if you would prefer to wait,” Cullen stammered out; Genevieve shook her head.

“Best to get nasty business over with,”

Cullen nodded, took the document, and left with a slight bow. Genevieve sighed, Inquisitor no longer. “Well, I said I didn’t want busy work.”

Blackwall got up from the bed and messaged her shoulders. “You don’t have to do it now, if you’d rather wait.”

“No, it want finish this. Our people deserve justice.”

Blackwall nodded; “I’ll go and see about having water brought up,” she smiled sadly and closed the distance between them before placing a sweet kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you,” she whispered and turned back to her desk.

XXXX

Blackwall had never seen the main hall so packed with people. Ambassadors, agents, dignitaries, soldiers, and servants milled around waiting for the Inquisitor to take her throne. Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine stood by the undercroft door, speaking quietly to one another. Josephine caught sight of Blackwall and beckoned him over.

“My lady,” he nodded politely.

“Stay close Serah Blackwall, we will show solidarity if we all stand together.”

“Of course,” Blackwall went to stand with the inner circle. Varric greeted him with a silent nod.

It didn’t take long for the Inquisitor to finally emerge. Ser Marbrand escorted her to the dais and took his place by her side. Genevieve sat down and the hall fell into silence. She motioned to a guard at the end of the hall; he saluted and opened the doors.

The first of six prisoners was marched in. It was the attempted assassin. He looked better from the last time Blackwall had seen him. His arm had been bandaged where Genevieve had gotten him with her ice spell, the bruises on his face had started to fade, but his nose was broken. In the light and without bitter rage and fear fueling him, Blackwall finally got a good look at him. He was an older man; there were crow’s feet under his eyes and worry lines across his forehead. Blackwall saw nothing but a desperate old man.

Josephine stepped forward. “For judgment, Arlo Mathias,” she didn’t bother to hide the disdain in her voice. “The man who poisoned the Inquisitor with a crossbow bolt. Without intervention, it would have taken your life, Inquisitor,” Some Orlesian lady gasped as if she were unaware of this information. “The Inquisitor should know that through his cooperation we were able to capture the other traitors.”

Genevieve sighed and crossed her legs. Her voice always dipped lower when she was the Inquisitor. “Arlo Mathias, I must admit I don’t recognize you.”

“I am a lowly soldier, your Worship.”

“Was!” Someone shouted angrily from the back off the hall, there was a flurry of agreeable shouts.

Genevieve raised her hand for silence. “Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Mathias shrugged. “What can I tell you? That I believe you some heretic? That the Inquisition is the only thing standing between the true god and his destiny? Is that what you want to hear?”

“I want to understand why,” Genevieve frowned and tented her fingers.

The man nodded. “Your life would have bought safety for my family,” he spoke in a reasoned tone. “It would have put them in comfort for the rest of their lives. I knew your men would find me, I knew they would execute me for my crimes, but it didn’t matter, the Venatori would pay my wife and children for my sacrifice.” It was as reasonable as it was wrong. “I accept whatever punishment you set down. I joined the Inquisition in good faith, your Worship—I swear on the Maker I did—but I got mouths to feed and a farm that’s dying. Inquisition gold, Tevinter gold, makes no difference to me.”

The Inquisitor nodded slowly and sadly. “Take Arlo Mathias back to his cell and bring in the next one, I will judge them at the end of the proceeding.” The man was escorted out and the servant Cullen had caught was up next.

“Davis Kimball,” Josephine announced. “He stands accused of willfully poisoning the people of the Inquisition, Commander Cullen found potion vials under his bed, the Grand Enchanter can confirm that the substance found in the bottles is the same material we identified during the plague.”

“Are we certain he is the one?” Genevieve asked.

“The others confirmed his involvement,” the ambassador explained. “He was also assigned to the supply lines just before the outbreak.”

“Dorian and I tested the potions,” Vivienne stepped forward. “The substance was a match.”

“And you Davis Kimball, have you anything to say in your defense?” Blackwall could already see how drained she was. It was a hard thing, holding life and death in the palm of one’s hand. But she would see justice done, she always did.

Kimball remained silent and Leliana stepped forward. “He refuses to speak Inquisitor; I doubt you will hear anything from him.”

Genevieve nodded but tried to question the man anyway. After fifteen minutes she submitted to defeat and ordered Kimball taken away. The next two were escorted into the hall together. “The Hayden Brothers,” Josephine said. “They were on watch when Arlo Mathias climbed into your room, Inquisitor. He paid them off and promised them a share of his reward.”

They were boys, both younger looking that the Inquisitor. Their time in the cells had given them a chance to grow patchy scruff. _Lads. Kids who’ve ruined their lives for coin._ Was Blackwall’s firsts thought about them. They were like him, and that made it all the worse.

“Please your Worship, we only meant to take care of our families!” One of the boys cried. They both had fallen to the ground, their heads pressed to the stone.

“I have three little ones to feed!” the other moaned, he was crying actual tears. Or at least Blackwall thought them real. Tears or no, he didn’t want mercy for them, they had taken their oaths and their uniforms and the trust of the Inquisition and traded it for gold. A crime much like his own, but it was his little bird’s life they had endangered and in his mind that warranted a painful death.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana came forth again. “I had my people check in on these too.” She shot a cold glance at the two prostrate men. “They do not have children, they are not even married. They began spinning that story in the cells, thinking I wouldn’t look into it.”

“Your Worship please! Mercy, we didn’t understand, we were addled by drink and—”

“And he just promised us gold for keeping our mouths shut, didn’t say anything else, just that!”

The brothers kept interrupting each other like fools and for a moment the hall seemed confused about whether this was a judgment or a mummer’s show. Blackwall could see Genevieve’s patients running thin, finally she rose from her seat. “ _Enough!_ ” she barked, her voice echoing off the hall and shutting the boys down immediately.

Now that it was quiet, she sat back down, wet her lips and said; “When you joined the Inquisition you spoke an oath with the promise that you would stand vigilant against all threats, guard against all danger, _value_ the lives of those you protect above your own. Tell me, what if I was not the only target of that night? What if this was about killing as many members of the Inquisition as possible?” she let her words settle for a moment. “And you were paid to look the other way? Did that not come off as suspicious?”

“Y-y-your Worship we—”

“Quiet,” Genevieve hissed and crossed her arms. “You’re either traitors or you’re stupid, though I think you’re both.” The audience laughed nervously. She took a deep breath. “You do not deny that you took a bribe for your silence?”

“We do not, your Worship.” One said, his voice quivering like a child’s.

“And they surrendered without a fight, your Worship.” Josephine said. “Suggesting they at least felt a modicum of guilt.”

Genevieve rubbed her temples and sighed. “What you have done is a violation of your oaths, and you are no longer welcome with the Inquisition. I hope you think upon your actions on the way to the nearest Grey Warden outpost, I’m sure they’ll make a use of you.”

Blackwall did not like it, but the Inquisition had used resources to train the two whelps, at least they would put it to good use fighting darkspawn. He hoped they were at least thankful for their lives. They didn’t seem so thick as to not recognize that their lives had been spared and they heaped thanks and praise on her as they were escorted from the hall.

They brought the mage in next; she was escorted by Templars, her hands tied behind her back. The Templars were not gentle with her and when she did not bow, one of them put his hand on her head and shoved it down.

Genevieve stood; “ _Ser_ ,” she growled. “You know better,”

The Templar drew red with embarrassment and bowed himself. “Forgive me, your Worship. I am not a barbarian; I will do well to remember it.”

The mage laughed; “Well you have all of them eating right out of your hand, don’t you?”

“Mage Rena Lockwood formerly of the Ostwick circle,” Josephine said, tapping her quill nervously against her board.

“Ostwick?” Genevieve frowned; she looked as if she were searching for some old memory of the mage. “You fled to Redcliffe then?”

“I did what you should have done,” the mage snapped. “I rallied to our people. And you, well, you were always so good at doing what the Templars told you,”

If the Inquisitor was insulted, she did not show it. “Forgive me; I do not remember you,”

“Well of course you don’t.” the girl snickered. “Genevieve Trevelyan was too busy playing with her flowers and doing as she was told. You know, me and the other apprentices could never figure out how you did it. The Templars just…left you alone. I just guessed you’re young and pretty and all those older ones were missing their wives and you just sucked them off.”

Blackwall nearly charged her, but it was Ser Marbrand who put voice to the hall’s collective outrage; “ _How dare you,_ ” his outburst even surprised Genevieve. “Her Worship saved your life; that Tevinter monster would have made you slaves if not for her!”

“Better a slave to mages then caged by Templars!” Lockwood screeched and tried to glare the knight down.

“You’re the kind of mage that deserves to be—”

“ _Silence!_ ” and the hall flashed with lightning. Genevieve was out of her seat, hand outstretched and the corona of magic still around her. She was red faced with embarrassment or anger, Blackwall couldn’t be sure. “If there is another outburst I will clear the hall, is that understood?” she shot a look at Marbrand, and the knight cowed under it. He bowed, and stepped back in regret. “Josephine,” the Inquisitor said calmly and took her seat again.

Josephine nodded. “Arlo Mathias claims that she provided him with the poisons and was the one who brokered the deal with the Venatori,”

“Have you anything to say then?” Genevieve asked the mage. She looked calm, but Blackwall could see the icy wrath building inside her.

“The Elder One will destroy you and your Inquisition. If I had known you would become this I would have killed you in the tavern that day. I would have told Alexius about you,”

A flash of recognition came across Genevieve’s face. “You were at the tavern the day I met with Fiona and Alexius; it _upset_ you that I removed Tevinter from Redlciffe.” Blackwall thought upset was an understatement.

“Unlike the other mages who allied with you, I remembered my promise to the Magister. I went with the other mages, but only as a spy.” He words were becoming a confession. “I wasn’t privy to the important stuff, but I could tell them things I observed, and I had access to the garden and to potions,”

“You made the poison and you used your magic to help it spread faster.” Genevieve filled in the blanks. Nothing more had to be said, everything else simply fell into place. She had given the potion to the servant to put in the supplies, he had probably been promised money. Then when the poison was stopped she formulated a new potion and decided to attack the Inquisitor directly.

The Inquisitor stood. “Return the prisoner to her cell and empty the hall. Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, you will remain.” Her advisors joined her on the dais.

Blackwall turned, prepared to stay; “Inquisitor,” but the look she gave him told him enough. This was her burden to bear; she could not share it with him. He sighed, turned, and left the hall with the others.

He was surprised to see Cole at the bottom of the keep stairs. He had not seen the boy for days and had never gotten a chance to properly thank him for his help with the demon. According to Varric, he’d been spending a lot of time in the tavern’s attic and had insisted he be left alone.

“Cole, you have a minute?” Blackwall asked. The lad cocked his head and then nodded slowly. They walked together to the barn. “I never got the chance to thank you for helping me with Remorse.” Blackwall began as they sat down before the cold firepit.

“You—you did all the work,” Cole muttered. “I didn’t help very much. But I tried.”

Blackwall nodded. “You did better than tried, if not for you Genevieve and I would still be stuck there,”

The lad frowned. “But I got chased away,”

“Aye,” Blackwall patted him on the back. “But you got me through the tough stuff, lad. And I am thankful for that,”

“Oh, okay,” Cole muttered, although it seemed like he didn’t quite understand how much he had helped.

“Have you spoken to the Inquisitor?”

“Yes.” Cole answered. But that was all he said on the matter.

Blackwall sighed and decided to pass the time as he always did, with some wood work. He offered to show Cole a more difficult design than flowers and the boy was happy to get a chance to try his hand at carving again.

“Can you show me how to carve a duck?” Cole asked almost eagerly.

“A duck?” Blackwall scratched his beard. “I don’t see why not,”

“With wheels?”

Blackwall chuckled slightly. “Let’s start with the bird first, then I’ll show you how to cut an axle and wheels later.” The satisfied the boy. Blackwall got the carving started and let Cole take it from there.

Eventually, Varric came to join them. He chatted for a while but he spent most of his time writing in a little notebook. It would have been a lovely day had the specter of judgment not been hanging over the keep. Judgment days were always like this, as if the castle itself began to mirror the temperament of its Lady—grave and authoritative. And with such a serious crime brought before the Inquisitor, the mood would no doubt linger for days to come.

Before long, it was past noon and the hall was opened again. Genevieve was seated on her throne, legs crossed, face passive. Cullen and Leliana stood on one side of her and Josephine on the other. Blackwall and Cole walked to the head of the hall to stand with the other members of the Inner Circle.

Once the hall was full, they brought each of the prisoners in to stand in a row before the throne. The room was silent as graveyard. Blackwall was sure of the verdict and the punishment. The crimes brought to her were not crimes leniency could be laid on. He would not pretend that death was not what he wanted for these people, even the young mage, who was old enough to throw her lot in with Venatori.

Genevieve uncrossed her legs and sat up; she tented her fingers and sighed. “There are some things in this world I hold as sacred as the Maker’s Word. Oaths are one of those things.” Blackwall took note of the emotions playing across her face; the minute movements of her lips, her eyes. To everyone else she looked steady, regal even; but to him she was screaming _I don’t want to, but I will because someone has too._ “To join the Inquisition, you took an oath, a solemn vow before men and Maker that you would faithfully and honorably execute the expectations of your position for the good of all Thedas. You broke that vow.”

She let her words soak through the hall before she continued. “I sent the Hayden brothers off to the Wardens where they might be of use, but to you three I cannot be so merciful.” She rose from her seat and Josephine brought her a document to sign. “I, Inquisitor Genevieve Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste, do hereby sentence you Arlo Mathias, Davis Kimball, and Mage Rena Lockewood to death for the crime of treason. You will be stripped of rank and title, your name struck from the Inquisition’s ledgers and all money from your service has been forfeited. At day break tomorrow, you will be hung by the neck until dead. May the Maker have mercy on you.”

It came as no surprise. And with a collective sigh of relief the prisoners were escorted out of the hall. Cullen was about to follow them, Genevieve stopped him; “At first light, Commander.” She told him. “And the bodies will not be displayed. They are to be burned and returned to their families.”

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Cullen bowed and left.

Genevieve came down from the dais to stand with her inner circle. She wrung her hands for a moment before saying; “I’ll be in the garden,” then she turned heel and left.

Blackwall was about to follow after her, but Varric stopped him. “Give her a minute, Hero.” And he did. But only a moment.

Ser Marbrand and Ser Brandon were standing at the entrance to the chapel, and there Blackwall found her. She was kneeling before the statue of Andraste. He stopped to watch her and waited patiently for her to finish her prayer.

It was a moment like this that he thought she truly looked the noble, righteous leader of the Inquisition. He could never tell if she was praying for guidance or forgiveness or if she just needed the simple comfort the Chant gave her. After a few more minutes, she rose and turned to see him. She looked tired.

“My lady,” Blackwall greeted. He held out his hand to her, she took it and he pulled her into the circle of his arms. She placed her head against his shoulder. He could hear the rattle of her breath and felt the heaviness of the way she leaned against him. “Perhaps you should call it a day, little bird?”

She drew away from him and fixed him with a glare. “I haven’t gotten the chance to look over my garden,”

“Your garden can wait another day, my lady.”

Genevieve frowned and shook her head. “I will not let a judgment ruin my entire day.” She left the chapel and went out into the yard.

“I understand,” Blackwall followed after her. “But I don’t want you to get sick again,”

“I am not going to get sick because I tended my plants for a few hours,” she kneeled over a pot of royal elfroot and ran the pad of her thumb over one of the leaves.

“My lady—”

She looked up at him; “Blackwall,” she spoke so firmly it was almost a command.

Defeated, Blackwall nodded. “Aye, alright. I won’t fight you over it,” And he sat on one of the benches and let her do her work. She went and changed out of her finery into something she didn’t care to get dirty.

She kneeled down before one of the empty patches of damp dirt and began digging small holes. He watched her for a little while before hoisting himself off the bench and coming to kneel beside her. He took the trowel from her hand and finished scooping out a cone shaped hole.

“I’ll do this,” he said softly. “What are you planting?”

She pointed to a burlap sack filled with tulip bulbs. “They’ll be pretty when they come up,” She dropped a bulb into one of the holes she made and then used her hands to cover it lightly with dirt. “I want to plant a new crop of that purple veined elfroot too, and dahlias.”

“Will you plant poppies?”

“And roses,” she smiled and filled another hole with bulb and dirt. “I want to have the prettiest garden this side of the Fostbacks. It isn’t the biggest, but it will be the brightest.”

Blackwall gently pressed his lips against her temple. “And it will have most beautiful Lady to tend it,” it was enough to elicit a giggle and a proper kiss.

They carried on for a few minutes, Blackwall dug a neat row of holes and she would plant a blub and cover it. It was nice, Blackwall thought, calming and peaceful. He could see why she enjoyed it so much; giving a seed a chance to grow, to survive, that was what she did. _In all things._

“I think the elfroot will make a nice compliment to the tulips.” She said as she showed him how to properly plant little elfroot seedlings. She planted them in a semi-circle behind the tulip bulbs.

They planted the last of the elfroot together, but when they were finished the peace and joy of simple gardening fell from her face. Genevieve sighed and wiped her hand on her apron. She asked a passing servant to bring them something to eat.

When their food arrived she poured herself a large goblet of sweet wine but didn’t touch the bread and cheese. She took a few sips and then leaned against him with another sigh. “Sometimes I wonder,” she muttered so softly he almost didn’t hear her, “if I make the right choices.”

Blackwall knew she was talking about the judgment. She’d had no choice. What those people had done was not something you could forgive. It was not something others would forgive.

She took a deep, sorrowful breath. “Perhaps I should have given them all to the Wardens? At least they would be of some use there.”

Blackwall frowned. He did not know how best to shape his words; he did not want to hurt her, he would never be as eloquent as the other members of the inner circle. He was forced to blunder through his words as he always did. “Do you truly think they would have made it to the Wardens? That they would not have had an accident along way? Fallen off the cart? Run over by a horse? A bandit attack?”

“I am not naïve,” she growled, but there was no anger in her tone. “I know what might befall them on the road. I know that those Brothers may very die—if not by the hand of an angry solider then in the joining or by a darkspawn attack—I sentenced them to death, a slow one.”

He shook his head. “You gave them a chance to redeem themselves. And if they die by sword or not they will make their account in the end. You gave them a chance, that’s what matters.” He sighed and took her hand in his. “You gave me a chance, and that means something, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have to reckon with the Maker.”

She smiled sadly; “Spoken as if my hands are bloodless.” He kissed her knuckles and she said; “What the demon—Remorse—said was true. I feel the loss of every life I take and I am left to wonder what would have happened if only one thing in their life had changed, that they might not be what they are. That I might not be what I am.” She drank the rest of her wine and stood up. “I am…not hungry,” she rose from the bench and Blackwall with her.

Hand in hand, they made for the wall. It was a place where they could walk in relative solitude. Her knights walked a safe distance behind them, still in plain view but far enough they could not eavesdrop.

“What did the demon show you?” she asked after a while.

He was not sure what to tell her. That he had seen her men and even the Iron Bull speak about her like she was a some common whore—that he’d seen her with that dark part of himself that he would spend the rest of his days trying to shed?

When he didn’t answer right away, she did; “It started with the cellar, tried to make me feel like that little girl again,” he could see her as a little girl; small, with willful blue eyes doused in fear and darkness. “It wanted me to be ashamed of myself, of what I was. I could hear father’s boots pacing above me, could hear my mother crying.”

He had beaten the demon back with by facing his regrets he was curious to see how she had confounded Remorse for as long as she did. “How did you beat it?”

She snapped her fingers and a little wisp of light appear. Blackwall could see it glowing brightly even with the sunlight around them. She closed her hand into a fist and the wisp died. “I have light wherever I go,” she smiled. “For the longest time I had been ashamed of what I was, but that was a long time ago.”

They stopped to look out over the valley. Blackwall knew she was expecting him to share. He took a deep breath; “It tormented me every step of the way; the deeper we went in the worse it got.” He took a soft breath and gently pulled her against him. He pressed a kiss to her temple and held her there against his chest as he spoke. “It showed me—the old me—with you.” A shiver ran through him, even now the vision unsettled him so deeply it was like his body didn’t know how to react. “I was smearing blood all over your back,” he swallowed and touched her hair. “Into your hair. It was me and not me,”

It made him feel sick. The worst kind of sick. Like the twisting of knife in his gut and in his heart.

She gave him soft, sympathetic eyes. “Blackwall,” she whispered and placed a hand against his cheek. “It wasn’t real.”

He put his hand over hers and drew her palm to his lips. “I know but…that man—”

“Is not you,” she whispered. “I know you. You did some terrible things in the past, but who hasn’t?” She looked out into the sky. “There are all kinds of demons, Remorse demons root around in your head and drag out your regrets. You regret Thom Rainer and the man you were, it showed those things to you because that is the twisted representation of how you perceive yourself.”

Blackwall let her hand go and drew her against him. He knew what she was saying and how the things in the Fade had been shown to him. Not lies, but not the truth either.

“I stood between Rainer and the carriage,” he admitted.

“And I made peace with Derrek,” She sounded near tears, but there was a slim smile on her lips. “Demons are clever and they can snare even the bravest of us—but their greatest weakness is underestimating us. They show us the things they think will make us weak and sometimes those things make us stronger.” She laughed, but it was short and melancholy.

They stood there for a time and watched the sunset. Supper would be soon and Blackwall knew it would be best to get Genevieve out of the cold. They walked back to the keep as the light started dying. He could see the exhaustion on her features but she looked better than she had in days, as if some great weight had been taken off her chest. And he felt better too. She was right; the demon had made them stronger.

Supper was set out in the main hall and the entire circle came to eat. It was a boisterous affair, as all meals with the inner circle were. Dorian, Solas, and Vivienne got into a debate about how the remorse demon even managed to get so powerful and ended only when Genevieve told them she didn’t want to hear another word on the matter. Bull convinced her to open up the bottle of whiskey he’d gotten her for her Name-Day so that she and the circle could properly toast their victory.

Varric slammed his glass down; “that’ll put some hair on your chest!” he laughed.

“Because you need more,” Dorian quipped and threw his drink down the back of his throat as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

Not to be outdone, Blackwall drank his in one swallow and coughed when the liquor caught the back of his throat and burned all the way down. It warmed through his blood and got him sweating. “Dragon’s Breath is an apt name,” he choked out.

Cassandra took a sip of hers and then pushed the drink away as she coughed and hacked. Bull snatched up the drink before Sera could and tipped it back. “Take a breath through your nose first,” he instructed as Genevieve was looking down at her whiskey with wary eyes. “Then tip it back and breathe through your mouth,”

Genevieve took a deep breath. “Here goes,” she muttered, took a sharp breath through her nose, tipped the whiskey into her mouth and swallowed before breathing through her mouth. “Maker’s Breath!” she cursed and reached for her tea.

Sera grabbed the cup and saucer before Genevieve could reach it. “Too slow!” the elf giggled wildly.

“Sera!” the Inquisitor croaked, Blackwall could not help but laugh.

“Here, Inquisitor,” Cullen passed her his drink and she took it. Blackwall had seen the commander pour himself a mug of un-watered Ferelden all and he tried to stop her but she took a swallow and Cullen burst into laughter. “That’s for my desk, I know you and Sera did it,” the commander dodged a playful swipe from Genevieve.

This, Blackwall thought, was what they needed most. This was their family, their odd, misfit family. And even though they were forced to end the night with talk of business and the morning executions, he went to bed feeling better than he had in days.

XXXX

Dawn was still hours off when he felt Genevieve stir beside him. He opened his eyes and found her sitting up, the blanket’s pulled up around her shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice deep with sleep.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Just thinking.”

He sat up. “About?”

Even in the dark he could see the faint touch of a smile come to her lips. “Everything,” she answered. “Corypheus, mostly.”

Blackwall pulled her against his bare chest. She curled against him, her fingers gently finding the tangle of his beard. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. He felt her kiss him and then again; each touch of her lips was feathery and sweet. She braced herself against his chest and sat up. Their lips met softly.

“I would rather think about you,” she breathed. He could deny her nothing.

He pulled her on top of him and soft kisses turned passionate. “I think I can help you with that, my lady,” he felt a wide smile come to his lips. She really did make him happy—happier than he deserved.

Her night gown came off easily and she was warm and naked against him. His fingers slipped down her thigh and he came to the twisted knot of skin where the assassin’s bolt had taken her and he was reminded, that most importantly, she was here and _alive._

She had such a small figure; he’d thought that the first time too. But now there was no urgency. He kissed her ears and lips, kissed down her body trailing each scar she’d accumulated in this war. All things melted away as they murmured sweet, unimportant things against each other’s skin. 

Genevieve twined their fingers together; their lovemaking was simple and sweet and gentle and it was all he needed. Just to be with her was enough—to love her was enough. She had offered him redemption and his payment paled in comparison. But he would spend the rest of his days devout in his affections, honest in his words, and be as brave and honorable as she thought he was.

And flowers. He would give her flowers too. _Roses,_ he thought, _I haven’t given her enough roses._ Then his thoughts were swallowed up by the woman in his arms. He would worry about flowers later—for now, his kisses would have to suffice.

  **Explicit, Deo Gratias.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to extend my heartfelt thank you to the people who have been following this story and supporting it. You guys have made this an awesome journey; it’s been a delight to write and to interact with my fellow Dragon Age fans. Seriously, this has been so cool and so much fun, thank you all very much.
> 
> I just wanted to say that I love Blackwall’s character and this was the first Bioware romance that I felt actually hurt me. I struggled with his character especially when you take into consideration that I’m studying criminology. Roses began as a way to “fix” what had happened. I had to redeem him and this seemed like most natural way to do it. 
> 
> I really hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did. I hope that those who are on the fence about Blackwall see that he has some redeeming qualities. He has a very complex character and I hope I was able to capture him as well as Bioware crafted him. 
> 
> To end, I am working on some other projects. While this is not a promise, I hope to post them as soon as they are finished. 
> 
> Thanks guys, this was an awesome ride.
> 
> Update: May 2015  
> The project mentioned above is finally off the ground! Check out Hawke Hunt, a "spiritual sequel" to Roses. It features my Genevieve and Blackwall, as well as Skylar Hawke and Sebastian Vael. 
> 
> In this story, Hawke has gone missing and the Prince of Starkhaven is desperate to find her, he enlists the help of the Inquisitor and her friends. But they have a hard road ahead of them, and all adventure has a price. 
> 
> I hope it's not to much to ask you if you'd check out Hawke Hunt. I'm very excited about it. It's given me a chance to play around in an original plot with my favorite Bioware characters. Thanks again, for reading through Roses and, if you do hit up Hawke Hunt, thanks for that too! 
> 
> Here the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/3649767/chapters/8063676 
> 
> Also, checking out my joint tumblr with enc0432 would be pretty nice of you, thanks again: http://thedissonantsisters.tumblr.com/


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